Missing
Inside
Front
Cover
FANTASTIC ADVENTURES
You Build These and Many Other
Radio Circuits with Kits I Supply
i. E. SMITH
President
National Radio Institute
Our 30th Year of Training
Men for Success in Radio
\ Big Demnnd Now for Well Troined
^ Radio Technicians, Operators
I will send you a FREE! Lesson. "Getting Ao-
Qualnted with Receiver Servicing,'^ to show you
bow practical It is to train for Radio at home in
spare time. It's a valuable LeesoiL Study it^ — keep
^it — use it — without obligation! And with this
Leaser I'll send my 64-page, illustrated book.
"Win Rich Rewards in Radio,” FREE. It de-
scribes many fascinating jobs Radio offers, tells
how N.R.L gives you practical Radio experience
at home with SIX BIG iUTS OF RADIO PABl-S
1 send!
Many 0{»orfun1ties Opon for Trained
Radio Technicians and Operators
There’s 3 shortage today of oapable Radio
Technicians and Operators. The Radio Repair
business is booming. Pnrfits are large, After-
the-war prospects are bright, too. Tlilnk of the
new boom in Radio Sales and Servicing that’s
coming when new Radios are again available —
when Frequency Modulation and Electronics can
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expansion!
Broadcasting Stations. Aviation Radio, Police
Radio, Loudspeaker Systems, Radio Manufaetxir-
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and most of these fields have a big backlog of
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it will be so easy to get a start in Radiol
Many Beginners Soon Make $5, $10
a Week EXTRA in Spare Time
The day you enroll for my Course I start send-
ing you EXTRA MONEY JOB SHEETS that help
show how to make EIXTRA money fixing Radios
in spa.re time while still learning. I send you
SIX big kits of Ratllo ports as part of ray Course.
You LEARN Radio fundamentals from my illus-
trated. easy-to-grasp lessons— PRACTICE what
you learn by building real Radio Circuits— PROVE
what you learn by interesting tests on the cir-
cuits you build 1
Mail Coupon for FREE Lesson ond Book
The opportunity vrar has given b^inners to
get started in Radio may never be repeat^. So
take the first step. Get my FREE Lesson and
64-page bo(*. No obligation — no salesman will
call. Just mail Coupon in an envelope or pasted
on a penny postal.— j. E. SMITH. President,
Oept. 4MM, National Radio Institute, Washing-
ton 9. D. C.
a Month In
Own Business
IM ^ i "Forseveralyesn
a aT
^sbusiness for my-
^ ^'Self making
j®O^V-'arouud $-00 a
month. Business
'has steadily in-
CTeased. I have N.R.I. to
thank for my start in this
field." ARLIE J. FROEH-
KBR. 300 W. Texas Ave.,
Goose Creek. Texas.
SUPER.
HETERODYNE
CIRCUIT
(above) Preselec*
tor, oscillator-
mixer-first detec-
tor. i.f. stage,
diode - detector -
a.v.c. stage, audio
stasre. Brings ip
local and distant
stations.
A. M. SIGNAL
GENERATOR
(left) build it
yourself. Provide s
amplitude - mod-
ulated signals for
test and experi-
mental purposes.
$5 to $10 Week ^
in Spare Time 1 ^
*T am engaged ^
in spare time .
Radio work. I '
average from S5
to $10 a week,
1 often wished Hm| j^JSm
that 1 had en-
rolled sooner.
All this EXTRA money sure
does come in handy.” THEO-
DORE K. DuBREE, Hor-
aham. Fa.
MEASURING
INSTRUMENT
(above) you build
early in Course.
Vacuum tube mul-
timeter, measures
A.C.. D.C.. R.F.
volts, D.C. cur-
rents, resistance,
receiver output.
Chief Operator
} Broadcasting
station
^ - * ‘‘Before ^ com-
I j Pleted your les-
’ sons. I ob-
p talned ray Rs-
*^10 Broadcast
Operator's li-
tense and immediately
joined Station tt'MPC where
I am now Chief Operator.”
HOLLIS F. IT.4.YES, 327
Madison St., Lapeer. Mich.
Television
Electronics
Frequency
Modulation
My ^ up-to-date
Course includes
training in these
new developments.
J. E. SMITH, president, Oept 4MH W
National Radio Institute, Washington 9, 0. C. ^
Mail me FREE, without obligation, Sample I.,es8i>(n and
64-page book, "Win Rich Rewards in Radio.” (No salesman
will call. W^rlte plainly.)
Name Age....
Address
t Trained
These Men
OqodFouBoth
64 PACE 900K
SAMPU LE550H
MAY, 1945 Cover by Pete Kuhlhoff
NOVELETTES
THE MAN WHO CRIED "WOLF!” ®
Who can mistake those called by the moon, shaggy shadows
in the night runnitig on all fours
THE SHINING LAND . Edmond Hamilton 30
Through the glowing, unearthly haze was an island below them —
in an ocean that had no islands!
SHORT STORIES
THE WATCHERS . Ray Bradbury 21
Men have spent lifetimes trying to discover who are the '■'watchers^’
and who the "^watched”
THE LEGEND OF 228 Harold Lairlor 42
There was someone living on the 4th floor of the old deserted
frame house — someone or something
THE LOST DAY August Derletfa 52
What nagged him was a consuming curiosity about yesterday,
that therein lay something he should know
THE ULTIMATE PARADOX Thorp McCIusky 58
Universal force obeys certain laws — incredible to us —
but laws nonetheless
THE MUSIC-BOX FROM HELL Emil Petaja 68
By an evil rearrangement of his vibratory pattern the listener is swept
irresistibly into the Black Limbo of unspeakable consequences
BLOOD FROM A STONE ... Blanly Wade Wellman 73
Somewhere a gray gowned figure is at work — deadly work, you can
be sure, for the figure is a Shonokin!
WELCOME HOME! Charles King 81
The last place a fanatic witch-breaker would look for
mystic nonsense would be his own home
VERSE
THE WITCH William DeLisIe 67
SUPERSTITIONS AND TABOOS Irwin J Weil! 51
THE EYRIE AND WEIRD TALES CLUB 91
Except for personal experiences the contents of this magazine is fiction. Any use
of the name of any living person, or reference to actual events is purely coincidental.
Published bi-monthly by Weird Tales, 9 Rockefeller Plaza, New York 20, N. Y. Reentered as second-class mattCT
January 26, 1940, at the Post OfSce at New York, N. Y,, under the act of March 3, 1879. Single copies, 15 cents-
Swhseription rates: One year in the United States and possessions, 90^, Foreign and Canadian postage extra,
English Office : Charles Lavell, Limited, 4 Clements Inn, Strand, London, W.G.2, England, The publishers are not
responsible for the loss of unsolicited manuscripts although every care will be taken of such material while in their
possession. Copyright, 1945, by Weird Tales. Copyrighted in Great Britain, 173
Title registered in U. S. Patent Office.
IN THE H. S. A. ' Vol. 38, No. 5
D. MCILWEAITH, Editor.
LAMONT BUCHANAN, Associate Editor,
WW£»W^/ 1
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T he moon had just come up. It was
shining across the lake, and when
Violet came in it cast a silver web
iover her hair.
But it wasn’t moonlight that slione in sul-
len pallor from her face. It was fear.
"What’s biting you,^” I asked.
"A werewolf,” said Violet.
I put down my pipe, got up out of the
armchair, and went over to her. All the
while she kept staring at me; standing and
staring like a big china doll with glass eyes.
I shook her shoulders. The stare went
away.
"Now, then,” I said.
"It was a werewolf,” she whispered. *T
O She was half Indian and half goddess — but wholly evil!
ososososo^
€
By ROBERT BLOCH
heard it following me through the forest.
Its paws .padded over the twigs behind me. I
was afraid to look back, but I knew it was
there. It kept creeping closer and closer,
and when tire moon came up I heard it howl.
Tlren I ran.”
"You heard it howl.^”
"I’m almost positive.”
"Almost!”
Her eyes dropped into hiding, beneath
lowered lashes. She bent her head and sud-
den color flamed in her cheeks. I kept
watehing her and nodded.
"You heard a wolf howling near the
cabin?” I insisted.
"Didn’t — you — ” she got out, in a stran-
gled wheeze.
I shook my head, slowly and firmly.
"Please, Violet. Lefls be sensible. We've
been over this thing half a dozen times in
the past week, but I’m willing to try again.”
I took her by the hand, quite gently, and
led her to a chair. I gave her a cigarette and
lighted it for her. Her lips shook and it
wobbled in her mouth.
"Now listen, darling,” I began. "There
are no wolves here. Wilds of Canada or not,
they haven’t seen a wolf in these parts for
twenty years. Old Leon down at the store
v/ill bear me out on that.
"And even if, by some strange chance, a
stray has wandered dov^n here from the
north, skulking around the lake, that doesn’t
prove anything about a werewolf.
s
WEIRD TALES
"You and I have enough common sense
to be above such silly superstitions. Try to
forget your Canuck ancestry and please re-
member that you’re now the wife of an ex-
pert in the field of legend.”
That crack about Canucks was pretty bru-
tal, but I wanted to shock her out of the
mood.
It had the opposite effect. She began to
tremble.
"But, Charles, surely you must have heard
something?” she sighed. Her eyes were
pleading now. I had to look away.
"Nothing,” I murmured.
"And when I've heard it prowling around
the cabin at night, you heard nothing?”
"Nothing.”
"That night I woke you — didn’t you see
its shadow on the wall?”
I shook my head and forced a smile. "I’d
hate to think you’ve been reading too many
of my stories, darling,” I told her. "But I
don’t know how to explain your — er — ^mis-
taken notions.”
V IOLET puffed on her cigarette and the
glowing tip flared up. But her eyes
were dead.
"You have never heard this wolf? It has
never followed you in the woods? Not while
you were up here alone?^’ Her voice en-
treated.
“I’m afraid not. You know I came up
here a month ahead of you to write. And I
wrote. . I saw no werewolves, ghosts, vam-
pires, ghouls, jinns or efreets. Just Indians
and Canucks and other citizens. One night,
after coming home from Leon’s piace, I
thought I saw a pink elephant, but it was a
mistake.”
I smiled. She did not smile with me.
"Seriously, Violet, I wonder if I made a
mistake, having you up here. But I thought
it would be like a bit of old times for you.
After all, to a French-Canadian girl, this
wilderness should be a treat. But now, I
wonder — ”
“You wonder if I’m insane.”
The words crawled from between her
lips.
"No,” I muttered. "I never said that.”
"But that is what you’re thinking,
Charies.”
"Not at all. We all get these — spells. Any
medical man will tell you that errors of per-
ception do not necessarily indicate any —
mental unbalance.”
I spoke hastily, but I could see she was
not convinced.
“You can’t fool me, Charles. And I can’t
fool myself, either. Something is wrong.”
"Nonsense. Forget it.” I put the smile
back on my face, but it didn’t seem to stick
very well. "After all, Violet, I should be the
last one to even hint at such a possibility.
People who live in glass houses, you know.
Don’t you remember, before we were mar-
ried in Quebec, how I used to speak of you
as a witch? I called you the Red Witch of the
North, and I used to write those sonnets
and whisper them to you.”
Violet shook her head. “That was differ-
ent. You knew what you were doing. You
didn’t see things, hear things that do not
exist.”
I cleared my throat. "I’m going to make
a suggestion to you, dear. You haven’t told
anyone besides me about this, have you?”
"No.”
"And it’s been going on, you say, about
two weeks?”
"Yes.”
“Well, I don’t want it to go on any
longer. I can see that you’re worried. For
that reason, and for that reason only — re-
member — ^I recommend that we call in Dr.
Meroux. Purely as a consultant, of course.
"I have a lot of faith in his ability, not
only as a physician but as a psychiatrist. You
know psychiatry is his hobby— of course,
he’s only an amateur stuck away here in the
woods, but he’s a man of repute. I’m sure
he’d respect your confidences. And he might
be able to make a diagnosis that would clear
the whole matter up in a jiffy.”
“No, Charles. I will not tell Dr. Me-
roux.”
I frowned. "Very well. But I’m inter-
ested in your ideas about a mysterious were-
wolf. I’d like to find out what you heard
about loup-garous in childhood. That grand-
mother of yours — she was part Indian,
wasn’t she? Didn’t she ever scare the day-
lights out of you with some wild yarns?”
Violet nodded. "Out — ^yes, I mean.”
I noted her reversion to the speech of her
childhood, but pretended to ignore it.
"Did she tell you about the wolf -men, the
THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF”
9
lycanthropes . . . who change their shape
when the moon calls and run baying on all
fours, their bodies shaggy shadows in the
night? Did she tell you how they prowl for
prey, tearing at the throats of their victims
who in turn become inocculated with the
dread virus of the werewolf?”
''Yes. She told me, many many times.”
"Ah. And now, when you return to the
wilderness, the image of your childhood
fears arises. The werewolf, my dear, is
merely a symbol of something you dread.
Some inner guilt, perhaps, is personified in
the hallucination of a beast-presence that
lurks awaiting the time to reveal itself.
"I’m not even an amateur psychiatrist
like Dr. Meroux, but I think I can safely
hazard that such a delusion is natural
enough. Now, if you’ll be frank with me,
perhaps we can dissect the nature of your
fear, arrive at the real terror that disguises
itself a snarling monster, a mythological hy-
brid that slavers at your neck in the for-
est — ”
"No! Stop! Please, not now — cannot
stand to talk of it further.”
Violet sobbed. I comforted her, crudely.
"Sorry. I imagine you’re nervous enough
as it is. We’ll just forget about it for the
time being, dear, and wait until you feel
that you can face the problem. Better get
some rest.”
Patting her shoulder, I led her to the bed-
room. .
We undressed, got into bed. I dimmed
the lamp, extinguished it.
The cabin was in utter darkness, save for
the filtered moonlight that trickled through
surrounding tree-tops. The lake beyond was
a sea of silver fire, but I turned from its ra-
diance and sank into sudden slumber.
Violet lay tense beside me, but as I drifted
off I felt her relax, gradually and slowly.
We slept.
I do not know what time it was that I
awoke. Violet’s hand bit into my shoulder,
and I heard the harsh inspiration of her
breath.
"Listen, Charles!” she gasped.
I listened.
"Do you hear that? Outside the cabin —
hear it scuffling against the door?”
I shook my head.
"Wake up, Charles — you must hear it.
It’s been snaffling around under the window
and now it’s scraping at the door. Do some-
thing! ”
I swung out of bed, grabbed her arm.
"Come on,” I said. "Let’s talce a look.”
I banged into a chair searching for the
flashlight.
"It’s going away,” Violet sobbed.
"Hurry.”
Flash firmly gripped in one hand, I
dragged Violet across the floor towards the
door. I halted, released her, snapped the
lock free.
The door flung open. I swung the flash-
light in a wide arc. The forest clearing
about the cabin was empty of all life.
Then I tilted the beam down towards our
feet.
Violet screamed.
"Look, Charles! There, in the earth out-
side the doorway! Don’t you see the tracks
— the tracks before the door?”
I looked.
There, clearly defined in the earth at our
feet, were the unmistakable paw-prints of
a gigantic wolf.
I turned to Violet and gazed at her a
long time. Then I shook my head.
"No, dear,” I whispered. "You’re mis-
taken. I don’t see anything. I don’t see any-
thing at all!”
II
T he next morning Violet stayed in bed
and I went down towards town to see
Lisa.
Lisa lived near the crossroads with her
father. The old man was paralyzed, and
Lisa supported him by doing Indian bead-
work and basketry for the tourist trade.
That’s how I’d met her, last month when
I came up alone. I stopped by the roadside
stand, intending to purchase a bracelet to
send to Violet.
Then I saw Lisa, and forgot everything
else.
Lisa was half Indian and half goddess.
Her hair was black. You couldn’t imag-
ine a deeper, more lustrous darkness — ^until
you gazed into her eyes. They were two
oval windows opening upon Night. Her
face and features were delicately moulded in
faintly burnished copper. Her body was
iO
WEIRD TALES
slim and strong, but strangely melting vvhen
clasped in an embrace.
I found that out very soon. Two days
after I met her, in fact.
I hadn't meant to be so precipitate. But
Lisa was half Indian and half goddess.
And she was all evil.
Evil as the night that perfumed the sable
■Splendor of her hair . . . evil as the gulf-
deep gaze of her eyes . . . the very pagan
perfection of her body was instinct widr the
substance of sin.
She offered me the bittersweet corruption
of that ancient and forbidden fruit known
to Lilith. She came to me on moonless
night, silent as a succubus, and I feasted on
night and darkness.
"When Violet came up, our meetings
halted. I told Lisa that we must be careful,
and she merely laughed.
‘Tor a little while, then,” she agreed.
"A little while?”
Lisa nodded, her eyes sparkling. "Yes.
Only as long as your wife remains alive.”
She said it quite naturally. And after a
moment I realized that it was quite a natural
remark to me. Because it was true, logical.
I did not want Violet any more. I wanted
this other thing — this thing that was not
love nor lust, but a wedding of my soul with
an utter wickedness.
And if I would have it, then Violet must
die.
I looked at Lisa and nodded. "Do you
want me to kill her?” I asked.
"No. There are other ways.”
"Indian magic?”
A month ago I would have snickered at
the mere suggestion. But now, knowing
Lisa, holding Lisa, I knew the suggestion
was quite valid.
“No. Not exactly. Suppose your wife
did not die. Suppose she had to go away?”
"You mean if she left me— got a di-
vorce?”
"You do not understand, I see. Is it not
true that there are places where they keep
tire insane?”
"But Violet isn’t crazy. She’s quite level-
headed. It would take something very ex-
traordinary to drive her mad.”
"Lilce seeing wolves?”
"Wolves?”
"A wolf will follow your wife. It will
plague her, torment her, haunt her when
she is alone. She will come to you for ex-
planations, for help. You must refuse to
believe her. In a little while her mind — ”
Lisa shrugged. *
I asked no questions. I merely accepted
what she told me. If Lisa v/ent to the woods
and consulted the shamans, or whispered
prayers to darker dispensers of doom, I did
not know.
All I know is that a wolf came to follow
my wife. And I pretended not to hear any-
thing, see anything. It was working as Lisa
predicted. Violet was going mad. From
somewhere she had acquired the notion that
her nocturnal nemesis was a werewolf. So
much the better. Her mind v/as going, fast.
And Lisa was waiting, smiling her secret
smile.
Lisa waited for me this morning, in the
little roadside stand near the crossing.
H ere in the sunlight she looked like a
sim.ple Indian bead-worker. Only when
her face was veiled in shadov? did I see her
eyes and hair, black and unchanging as her
secret self.
She put her hand on my arm, and a touch
of ice and fire shivered up my spine.
"And how is your wife?” she whispered.
"Not so well. Last night she found wolf-
tracks beside our door. She had hysterics.”
Lisa smiled.
"She thinks it’s a werewolf, you- know.”
Lisa smiled.
"I wish you’d tell me tlie truth, darling.
How do you make the wolf come and fol-
low her?”
Lisa smiled.
I sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too
inquisitive.”
"That is right, Charles. Isn’t it enough
to know that our plan is working? That
Violet is going mad? That soon she will
be gone and we can be together — always?”
I stared at her. "Yes, tliat is enough. But
tell me, what happens next?”
"Your v/ife will see the wolf. Actually
see it. She will become quite frightened.
You will refuse to listen to her, as before.
Then she will go to the authorities. She will
come to the village here and try to make
people believe her. Everyone will think her
mad. And when they ask you, you know
THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF”
11
nothing. In a short time the doctor will be
forced to examine her. After that — ”
"She will see the wolf?” I echoed. "Ac-
tually see it?”
"Yes.”
"When?”
"Tonight, if you like.”
1 nodded, slowly. Then a doubt came.
"But she’s almost overcome. She’ll be too
afraid to walk in the woods.”
"In that case, the wolf will come to her.”
"Very well. I shall erase the tracks, just
as I erased them this morning.”
"Yes. And you had better plan to go
away from the cabin tonight. You are a
sensitive person, Charles. You would find
it painful to endure die sight of your wife’s
terror.”
The image of Violet came to me — the
image of her frightened face, her bulging
eyes, her wide mouth opened in a scream of
utter fear as the monster of her fancies
crouched before her. Yes, that is how it
would be, and very soon.
I smiled.
Lisa grinned back. As I turned away I
could hear her laughing, and it came to me
tliat there was something unnatural in her
mirdi.
Then, of course, I realized the truth. Lisa
was not altogether sane herself.
Ill
W E ATE dinner in silence that evening.
As the moon came up over the lake,
Violet rose and pulled the shades wdth a
grimace she could not conceal.
"What’s the matter, dear? Is it tqo bright
for your eyes?”
"I hate it, Charles.”
"But it’s beautiful.”
"Not to me. I hate the night.”
I could afford to be generous. "Violet,
I’ve been doing a little thinking. This place
— it’s getting on your nerves. Don’t you
believe it might be helpful if you went back
to the city?"
"Alone?”
"I could join you there when I finish my
work.”
Violet brushed a lock of auburn hair
from her forehead. I noticed with a shock
how the fire had faded from her curls. The
luster was gone; her hair was dead and dull.
Just as her face, her eyes, were dead and
dull.
"No, Charles. I couldn’t go alone. It
would follow me.”
"It?”
"The wolf.”
"But wolves don’t come to the city.”
"Ordinary wolves, no. But this one — ”
"Why do you think this wolf you — uh —
see is not ordinary?”
She caught my hesitation but desperation
overrode all reticence. She went on, hur-
riedly.
"Because it comes only at night. Because
there are no real wolves here. Because I can
sense the evil of the beast. It is not stalking
me, Charles — it is haunting me. And me
alone. It seems to be waiting for something
to happen. If I went away, the creature
would follow. I can’t escape it.”
"You can’t escape it because it’s in your
mind,” I snapped. "Violet, I’ve been very
patient. I’ve neglected my work to take care
ct you. I have listened to your fancies for
two weeks now.
"But if you can’t help yourself, then
others must help you. I took the liberty this
afternoon of discussing your case with Doc-
tor Meroux. He wants to see you.”
She crumpled physically before my direct
accusation and statements.
"Then it’s true,” she gasped. "You do
think I’m — out of my mind.”
"Werewolves don’t exist,” I said. “I
find it easier to believe in the presence of a
mental aberration than that of a supernat-
ural entity.”
I rose.
Violet looked up, startled.
"Where are you going?” she whispered.
"Leon’s,” I told her. "I need a drink.
This affair plays the devil with my nerves.”
"Charles. Don’t leave me alone — to-
night.”
"Afraid of imaginary wolves?” I asked,
gently. "Now really, my dear! If you want
me to retain any faith in your mental sta-
bility, you’d better show me that at least
you can be trusted to stay by you»‘self a few
hours without collapsing.”
"Charles — ”
I went to the door, opened it. She winced
as the moonlight trickled across the floor in
12
WEIRD TALES
a silver pool. I stood there, smiliog at her.
"Violet, I feel that I’ve been most patient
with you. But if you will not see a doctor,
insist upon staying here, and refuse to admit
that you’re mentally upset — then prove it.”
I turned, went out, slammed the door, and
walked briskly down the path.
It was a beautiful night and I inhaled
deeply as I swung along towards the cross-
ing a mile ahead.
Impatience set the pace for me. I was in
a hurry to reach my destination. Actually, I
had no intention of visiting Leon’s tavern.
i went to Lisa.
Lisa’s little cabin was dark, and I won-
dered if she had retired. Her aged father
was already asleep, I knew. There would
be no trouble from that source.
As I approached the cabin, I had already
determined to arouse her, should she be in
bed. A night like this was not meant for
slumber.
A SUDDEN sound arrested me a short
distance from the doorway. The door
was opening, slowly. Instinctively I stepped
back into shadow as a figure emerged from
the cabin.
“Lisa!” I whispered.
She turned, came towards me.
"So you had the same idea,” I murmured,
taking her in my arms. Come on, let’s get
away from here. We’ll go ' down towards
the beach.”
Silently, she walked beside me as I led
her along the path that led to the water.
We stood staring up at the moon for a
long moment. Then, as my arms tightened
about her waist, Lisa turned to me and shook
her head.
"No, Charles. I must go now.”
"Go?”
"I have errands at the crossroads.”
"Let them wait,”
I cupped her face, bent to kiss her. She
drew away.
"What’s the matter, Lisa?”
"Let me alone!”
"Is there something — ^wrong?”
"Nothing’s wrong. Go away, Qiarles.”
I really stared at her, then. And staring,
sav/. Saw that her face was unnaturally
flushed, her eyes overly luminous, her lips
parted more in protest than in passion.
She wasn’t looking at me. She was look-
ing through me, looking at the moon behind
my body. Twin moons were mirrored in
her eyes. They seemed to expand, enlarge,
then replace red dark pupils with globes of
silver fire.
“Go away, Charles,” she muttered. "Go
— quickly.”
But I didn’t go.
It isn’t every day that one has the unusual,
opportunity to witness the spectacle of lycan-
thropic metamorphosis. And I was watching
a woman turn into a wolf.
The first indication came in the form of
respiratory change. Her breathing turned to
panting; the panting to hoarse gasps. I
watched her bosom rise and fall, rise and
fall, rise and fall — and change.
Her shoulders sloped forward. The body
did not stoop, but seemed to grow outcvard
at a slant. The arms began to telescope into
the shoulder sockets.
Lisa had fallen to the ground now: she
writhed partly in shadow and partly in
moonlight. But the moonlight no longer
gleamed against her skin. The skin was
darkening, coarsening, putting out hairy,
tufts.
Hers was an agony akin to that of par-
turition — and in a sense, it was parturition.
She was giving birth, not to a new soul but
to another aspect of her own. Agony and
action alike vcere purely reflex.
It was fascinating to watch her skull
change shape— as though the hands of an
invisible scultpure were kneading and
moulding the living clay, squeezing the very
bony structure into new conformations.
The elongated head seemed miraculously
shorn of curls for a moment, and then the
fine fur sprang up, the ears flared outward,
the pinkish tips twitched along a thickened
neck.
Her eyes slitted upward, w’hile the fea-
tures of the face convulsed, then converged
into a protuberant muzzle. The grimace of
involuntary rictus bcvame a snarl, and fangs
jutted forth.
Her skin darkened perceptibly— so that
her image was akin to that on an over-
developed photographic print "coming up”
in the hypo bath.
Lisa’s clothing had dropped away, and I
watched the melting of the limbs as they
THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF” ^3
foreshortened, furred, and flexed anew. The
hands that had pawed the earth in agony
now became paws.
The whole process occupied about three
and a half minutes. I know, because I timed
it w'ith my watch.
Oh yes, I timed it carefully. I suppose I
should have been frightened. But it is not
given to every man — this opportunity of
seeing a woman turn to a wolf. I regarded
the transformation witli what might well be
called professional interest. Fascination pre-
cluded the presence of fear.
Now the metamorphosis v/as complete.
The wolf stood before me, poised and pant-
ing.
O F COURSE, I understood. Understood
why Lisa had few friends, why she
spent so many evenings alone, vdiy she had
urged me to go away — and v/hy she could
so confidently predict the movements of
the phantom wolf.
I stood there and smiled.
The feral eyes searched mine imploring-
ly. I suppose she had expected me to ex-
hibit shock, dread, or at the least a definite
repulsion.
My smile was an unexpected answer. A
whimper rose in the furry throat, changed
to almost a purr. She was reassured now.
"You’d better go,” I whispered.
Still she hesitated. I reached down and
patted the lupine brow, still clammy from
the pangs of transmutation. "It’s all right,”
I said. "I understand, Lisa. You can trust
me, you know. And it doesn’t make any
difference in my feelings about — the two of
us.”
The purring subsided deep in the great
wolf’s shaggy breast.
"You’d better hurry now,” I coaxed.
"Violet is all alone. You promised to sur-
prise her.”
The gray beast turned and padded off
into the forest behind.
. I walked down to the lake and watched
the moonlight play over the water.
All at once the delayed emotional re-
action came. Everything was clear — too
dear.
I was in league with a girl to drive my
wife mad. The girl herself was not wholly
sane. And now I had learned she was a
werewolf. Perhaps I was a little crazy my-
self. .
But there it was. I couldn’t think of an
answer. I couldn’t back down now. Things
would go on according to plan. And in the
end I’d get what I wanted. Or — ^vmuld I?
Suddenly I began to sob.
It wasn’t remorse, and it wasn’t self-pity
and it wasn’t fear. It was merely a thought
that came to me — the thought of holding
Lisa in my arms and feeling her change; of
kissing Lisa’s red lips and suddenly find-
ing, pressed against my mouth, the leering
muzzle of a wolf.
My sobs were cut short by the far-off,
mocking howl from tire depths of the v/oods.
I put my hands over my ears and shud-
dered.
IV
A ll at once I found myself running
through the woods. I couldn’t hear any
howling, but the sound of my own gasps
roared in my ears. I ran madly, blindly,
tearing my face and hands as I careened
toward the cabin.
The place was dark. I panted towards
the door, tried it and found it locked.
Violet screamed from within, and I was
glad to hear her. At least she v/as — ^alive.
For the thought had come to me sud-
denly.
Werewolves not only frighten . . . they
km.
So her screams was welcome, and when I
opened the door she ran sobbing into my
arms; and that was welcome, too.
"I saw it!” she whispered. "It came to-
night, peered into the window. It was a
wolf, but the eyes were human. They stared
at me, those green eyes — and then it tried
to open the door — it was howling — I think
I fainted — oh Charles, help me — ^help
»>
me —
I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t
carry out my plans in the face of her utter
terror. Instead I took her in my arms and
whispered what I could to comfort her.
"Yes, dear,” I murmured. "I know you
saw it. Because I saw it too, in the woods.
That’s why I came. And I heard it hov/ling,
too. I know' now that you w-ere ri.ght — there
IS a wolf.
14
WEIRD TALES
"A werewolf,” she insisted.
“A wolf, anyway. And tomorrow I’ll go
down to the crossroads and we’ll get up a
party and find the beast.”
She smiled at me, tlien. She couldn’t con-
trol her trembling, but she managed to
smile.
"There’s nothing to be afraid of, dar-
ling,” I told her. "I’m here with you now.
It’s all right.”
We slept that night in each other’s arms,
like frightened children.
And that’s just about what we were, at
that.
It was past noon when I awoke. Violet
was calmly preparing breakfast.
I rose and did things to my haggard face
w'ith a razor. The food was ready when I
sat down, but I couldn’t eat much.
"The tracks are all around the cabin,”
Violet told me. Her voice didn’t waver as
she spoke — my belief gave her strength.
“All right,” I answered. "I’m leaving
for the crossroads now. I’ll tell Leon, Doc-
tor Meroux, some of the boys. Perhaps I’ll
go to the Mountie Headquarters if I can get
a ride over there.”
"You mean you’ll join the hunt?”
"Certainly. I’m going to be in at tlie kill.
It’s the least I can do — or I’d never forgive
myself for misjudging you.”
She kissed me.
"You won’t be afraid of staying alone,
now?” I asked.
"No. Not any more.”
"Good.”
I left.
I did a lot of thinking during my walk
to the crossroads. But my meditations were
rudely interrupted when I walked into
Leon’s tavern at the crossroads and de-
manded a drink.
Fat Leon was talking to little Doctor
Meroux down at the end of the bar. His
arms were flying and his eyes were rolling,
but when he saw me he halted and came up
tc where I was standing. He leaned across
the bar and stared.
"Ah, Meestaire Colby, it is good to see
you.”
’"Thanks, Leon. Been pretty busy lately
— couldn’t get in here very often.”
"Is it at your cabin that you have been
busy?”
Again the stare. I hesitated, bit my lip.
Why should I hesitate to ansv/er?
"Yes. My wife hasn’t been feeling so
well, and I’ve spent most of my time with
her.”
"It is lonely where you are, eh?”
"You know how it is,” I shrugged.
“Why?”
"Nothing. It is merely that I wondered if
you chanced to hear anything these nights.”
"Hear anything? "What could I hear?
Frogs and crickets, and — ”
"Wolves, perhaps?”
I blinked. Fat Leon stared at me.
"Have you heard the iiowl of le loup?’‘
he whispered.
My head shook. I hoped he was watching
that instead of my trembling hands.
"Strange. One would think that across
the lake the cries would echo.”
"But there are no wolves around here — ”
"Ah!” breathed Leon. "You are mis-
taken.”
"How do you know?”
"Do you remember Big Pierre the guide
— that dark one who lives across the lake
from you?” asked Leon.
"Yes.”
"Big Pierre left yesterday with a party
bound for the river. His daughter, Yvonne,
stayed behind to tend to the cabin. She was
alone in the night. It is because of her that
we know about the wolf.”
"She told you?”
"She did not tell us, no. But this morn-
ing the good Doctor Meroux chanced to
pass her door and paused to bid her good
day. He found her lying in the yard, Le
loup attacked her in the night, may her soul
rest in peace.”
"Dead!”
"Assuredly. One does not like to think
of it. Doctor Meroux lost the tracks in the
forest, but when Big Pierre returns he will
hunt the beast down, yes.”
Doctor Meroux edged along the bar, his
mustache fairly bristling with excitemient.
"What do you thinlc of that, Charles? A
renegade wolf loose in this territory — a
killer. I’m going to notify the Mounted
Police and see that a warning is given. If
you could have seen that poor girl’s body — ”
I downed my drink and turned away hast-
ily.
THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF”
15
"Violet!” I muttered. “She’s all alone.
I must get back to her.”
I hurried out of Leon’s tavern, half-ran
down the sunlit street.
N OW I knew where Lisa had gone after
she left Violet. Now I knew that
werewolves do more than change their
shape.
I swung towards her roadside stand. It
was closed. Abandoning caution, I hastened
towards her door. The only response to my
knocking was the querulous mumble of the
paralytic old man within.
But as I turned away, the door swung
open. Lisa stood there, blinking against the
sunlight. She was pale, drawn, and her hair
hung loosely down her bare back.
"Charles — what is it?”
I pulled her over to the shade of the trees
behind the house. She stood there, staring
up at. me, her face haggard and her eyes
dull with fatigue.
Then I slapped her, hard. She jerked,
tried to dodge, but my other hand gripped
her shoulder. I hit her again. She began
to whimper softly, like a dog. Like a wolf.
I hit her again, with all my might. I felt
a choking sensation in my throat and the
words wouldn’t come clearly.
"You little fool!” I muttered. “Why did
you do it?”
She wept. I shook her fiercely.
“Stop that! You thinic I don’t know about
last night? Well, I do. And so does every-
body around here. Why did you do it, Lisa?”
Then she understood, and knew that she
could not hope to deceive me.
“I had to,” she whispered. "You don’t
know what it’s like. After I left your wife
at the cabin I went back around the lake. It
was then that it — came over me.”
"What came over you?”
"The hunger.”
She said it simply.
“You can’t understand that, can you? The
way the hunger comes.. It gnaws at your
stomach and then it gnaws at your brain, so
that you cannot think. You can only — act.
And when I passed Big Pierre’s cabin,
Yvonne was at the well, drawing water in
the darkness. I remember seeing her there
and then — I forget.”
I shook her until her teeth rattled. ,
"You forget, eh? Well, the girl’s dead.”
"Thank le bon Dieu!” Lisa breathed.
I gasped. “You thank God for — that?”
“Certainly. For if she did not die — if she
survived the bite of one like myself — she
would become such an unfortunate being
as I am.”
"Oh.” I scarcely whispered the word.
“Don’t you understand? These things I
do are not of my choosing. It is the hunger,
always the hunger. In the past when I felt
the — change — coming, I went far away so
that no one would know. But last night the
hunger came swiftly and I could not help
myself. Still it is better that she is dead,
poor child.”
“That’s what you think,” I muttered.
“Except for one slight detail. It ruins our
plans.”
"How so?”
“My wife won’t be frightened by
thoughts of an imaginary wolf any more.
When she comes babbling of a haunting
beast, no one will think her crazy. Every-
body knows that there is a wolf, now.”
"I see. What do you propose?”
“I propose nothing. We’ll have to let
matters rest.”
Her arms were around me, her bruised
face pressed to my own. "Charles,” she
sobbed. "You mean we won’t be together — ”
"How can you expect that, after what
you did?”
"Don’t you love me, Charles?”
She was kissing me now, and her lips
were soft. It was not the kiss of a wolf but
the warm, vibrant kiss of a lovely woman.
Her arms were soft. I felt myself respond-
ing to her embrace, felt against the incred-
ible crescendo of desire this girl could rouse
in me. And I weakened.
“We’ll think of something,” I told her.
"But you must promise me — ^what happened
last night will never happen again. And
you must not go near my wife.”
“I promise.” She sighed. "It is a hard
thing to keep, that promise. But I shall do
my best. You will come to me this evening,
no? Then we can be together, and I will
have you to protect me from my-— hunger.”
"I’ll come to you tonight,” I said.
Her eyes flickered with sudden fear.
"Charles,” she whispered. “You had bet-
ter come before the moon rises.”
16
WEIRD TALES
V
W HEN I got back to the cabin, Violet
was waiting for me outside the door.
"Have you heard?” she said.
"How do you know?” I parried.
"There’s a man here to see you. He told
me. He asked me about the wolf, and I
mentioned what has been happening lately.
He’s in there now, waiting for you.”
"You told him,” I said. "And he wants
to see me.”
"Yes. You’d better go in alone. His
name is Craigin, and he’s v/ith the Mounted
Police.”
There was nothing else to do but go in-
side.
I had never met a member of the North-
west Mounted Police before. Except for his
uniform, Mr. Cragin might have been a big
city copper. He had the manner and the
mind.
"Mr. Charles Colby?” he said, rising from
the armchair as I entered.
"Yes sir. What can I do for you?”
'T think you know. It’s about the death
of that little Yvonne Beauchamps, across
the lake.”
I sighed. "They told me at the cross-
roads. Wolf, wasn’t it? Wanted to know
if I’d seen any signs of one.”
"Have you?”
I hesitated. That was a mistake. 'The big
man in uniform looked up at me and smiled.
"It doesn’t matter. Anyone who bothers
to take a look around this cabin will see
wolf-tracks galore. Matter of fact, there’s a
trail leading from here right around the lake
to the Beaucliamps place. I followed it from
tliere this afternoon.”
I couldn’t say anything. I tried to light a
cigarette pj'id wished I hadn’t.
"Besides,” said Cragin, "I’ve been talking
to j-'our wife. She seems to know all about
this w'olf.”
"Really? Did she tell you she saw one
here last night?”
"She did.” Cragin stopped smiling. "By
the way, where were last night when the
wolf appeared?”
"I was in town.”
"At the tavern?”
"No. Just walking.”
'"Walking, eh?”
The dialogue was far from sparkling, bat
it held my interest. I could see Cragin was
leading up to something. And he did.
"Let’s drop that angle for a moment,”
he suggested. "I have all the facts in the
case anyway. Just checking now to see if
we can discover the habits of this renegade.
We’re getting up a hunting party, you know.
Don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining
it — out of your line, isn’t it?”
I said nothing.
"Well, isn’t it?” he repeated. “You’re a
writer.”
I nodded.
'Tm told you do a lot of yarns about the
supernatural. You just finished one about
some kind of invisible monster, your wdfe
says.”
I nodded again. It was easy enough to
keep nodding.
Cragin stood up, casually. "Do you ever
get any funny ideas?” he asked me.
“Meaning?”
"Seems to me that an author like yourself
would natm'ally be a little bit — different. If
you’ll pardon my saying so, I’d imagine that
a man who writes about mon.sters must get
a pretty queer slant on a lot of things.”
I GULPED, but covered it up with a quick
grin. "Are you inferring that when I
write a story about a monster it’s part of my
autobiography?” I asked.
That wasn’t exactly what he expected. I
followed through.
"What’s the matter with you?” I drawled.
"Do you think I look like a vampire?”
Cragin forced a laugh. “It’s my business
to be suspicious. Let me see your teeth be-
fore I answer.”
I opened my mouth and said, "Ah!”
He didn’t like that, either.
I saw' my advantage and seized it.
"Just w'hat are you driving at, Cragin?”
I demanded. “You know that m^y v/ife has
seen a wolf around here. You know^ that
it appeared last night. You know' that it left
here and apparently w'ent around the lake,
killed the girl, and disappeared.
"We’ve given you all the information you
wanted. Unless, of course, you have a vague
idea that I might be some kind of a monster
myself. Maybe your scientific police theory
points to the notion that I change myself
THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF”
11
into a wolf, frighten my wife, and then go
out and murder a victim in the dark.”
I had him on the ropes now. 'Tm not
used to you backwoods Dick Tracy charac-
ters,” I said. "Of course I knew that some
of the half-breeds around here believe in
ghosts and werewolves and demons, but I
didn’t think members of the Mounted Police
adopted such superstitions.”
"But really, Mr. Colby, I — ”
My hand was on the door. I pointed,
smiling pleasantly. "My advice to you, sir,
is to go chase your wolf.”
He took it, and departed.
I sat down and allov/ed myself the luxury
of a good sweat as Violet came in.
For the first time, I was behaving sensibly.
My direct attack had certainly dispelled any
vagrant notions Cragin might have har-
bored. I had shamed him out of any faith
he might possess in the element of truth be-
hind Averewolf-whisperings.
I decided to follow it up by doing the
same- for Violet. Casually, I recounted the
details of our interview.
She listened in silence.
"Now, dearest, you see the truth,” I con-
cluded. "The wolf is real enough — but it’s
only a wolf. You thought it might be some-
thing more, because it exhibited intelligence.
Doctor Meroux tells me that renegades like
that are used to human beings and are much
more cunning.
"But when it killed, it killed like an ani-
mal. It’s a wolf and nothing more. Tonight
tliey’ll hunt it down and you can rest easier.”
Violet put her hand on my arm.
"You’ll stay here?” .she asked.
I frowned.’
"No. I’m going back to the crossing and
join the hunting party. I told you I would
last night. And it’s a point of honor with
me to be in on the kill.”
“I wish you wouldn’t — I’m frightened — ”
"Lock the doors. A vrolf can’t unbolt
locks."
"But—”
"I’m going hunting. Believe me, you’ll
be safer if I’m away tonight.”
VI
T he moon had almost risen when I came
to Lisa under the trees behind her door-
way.
She stood there in shadow, and something
caught at my throat as I realized, with re-
lief, that a woman waited for me and not a
wolf.
Her smile reassured me, as did her quick
caress.
"I knew you’d come,” she said. “Now we
can be together. Oh, Charles, I’m afraid.”
"Afraid?”
"Yes. Haven’t you heard? That Cragin
— the Mounted Policeman — he has been
talking. He came to see me today and asked
if I knew anything about the wolf. Leon,
down at the tavern, has been gossiping like
an old wmman about the way I go out at
night. And he has been carrying tales of
w'ere wolves.”
"You needn't worry,” I soothed. Briefly,
I repeated the substance of my interview
w'ith Cragin.
"But they are hunting tonight,” Lisa in-
sisted. "Leon has closed his place, and most
of the men are following Cragin. They left
at dusk, to go around the lake. They will
start from Big Pierre’s cabin and try to track
down the wolf.”
"Why should that worry you?” I re-
sponded, smiling. "There is no wolf. To-
night you and I will be together.”
"That is right,” Lisa answered. "I ani
safe as long as I’m with you.” She gestured
me towards the bluff beyond the trees.
"Shall we sit here and talk?” she sug-
gested. "Leon is closed, but I w'ent there
earlier in the day and bought some wine.
You like wine, don’t you, Charles?”
She produced a jug and we sprawled on
the grass.
The wine was sweet but strong. As the
moon rose in the east, I drank.
Suddenly she gripped my shoulder.
"Listen!”
I heard it from far away — far away across
the lake. The faint yelling of human voices
intermingled with a shrill, monotonous yap-
ping.
"They’re hunting, and they have
hounds.”
Lisa shuddered. I drank deeply, drew her
close*-.
"There’s nothing to fear,” I comforted
her. Nevertheless, as I stared at Jthe sky I
felt a rising fear; rising in proportion to the
increased clamor from across the lake.
WEIRD TALES
iS
They were hunting a werewolf — and she
was in my arms.
Lisa’s proud pagan profile was limned
against the pale and half-gnawed face of the
moon above.
Moon face and girl face, staring at each
other. And I, staring at both. . . .
When ye moon waxeth, so doth ye ac-
cursed taint in ye veins of ye iverewulf —
"Lisa,” I whispered. "Are you all right?”
“Of course, Charles. Here, drink!”
"I mean, you don’t feel as if something
is going to happen to — ^you.”
"No. Not tonight. I’m all right. I’m
with you now.”
She laughed and kissed me. I drank to
drown the dread I could not drive away.
“You won’t bother Violet again? You’ll
stop prowling by night until this dies
down?”
"Yes, of course.” She held the bottle up
to my lips.
“You’ll be patient? You’ll wait until I
can think of another plan?”
"Whatever you say, lover.”
I FACED her. “It may take time. Per-
haps we can’t be together as quickly as
I’d planned. There may be no way out ex-
cept divorce. Violet’s strict about such things
and she’ll fight. The legal angle might take
several years to work out before I was free.
Can you stand waiting that long?”
"Divorce? Years?”
"You must promise me that you'll wait.
That you won’t harm Violet or — anybody.
Otherwise we can’t go on together.”
She faced me, face in shadow. Then
she bent lov/ and sought my lips with her
mouth.
"Very well, Charles; if that is the only
way, I can wait. I can wait.”
I dranlc again. Everything was very clear.
Then it blurred. Then it was clear again.
Yapping of hounds roared in my ears, then
faded into a distant buzzing. Lisa’s face
loomed large, then swam out of sight.
It was the wine, but I didn’t care. I had
Lisa’s promise, and Lisa’s lips. I couldn’t
stand the tension any longer. These last few
days had been perpetual nightmare to me.
I drank my fill of lips and wine.
Some time later, I slept. . , .
’’Wake up!"
The, voice rasped urgently in my ears.
Suddenly I was being cuffed on the neck.
"Wake up, Colby! Hurry!”
I opened by eyes, sat up. The moon was
high overhead, and its pallid rays fell upon
the face bending towards mine — the face of
Doctor Meroux.
“Sleeping,” I muttered. "Where’s .Lisa?”
"Lisa? Nobody’s here but yourself. Wake
up, man — come with me.”
I rose, lurched a moment, regained my
balance.
"You all right?”
"Yes, Doc. What is it?”
"I don’t know if — ”
There was indecision in his voice and a
hint of dread. I caught the hint, held it.
Suddenly I was sober and shouting.
“Tell me. Doctor. What has. happened?”
"It’s your wife,” he said, slowly. "The
wolf came to your cabin tonight while you
were away. I happened by and stopped in
to see if everything was all right. When I
arrived the wolf had already departed.
But — ”
"Yes?”
“The wolf had torn Violet’s throat!”
VII
W E RACED in darkness, in a black blur
born of the night without and the fear
within.
Lisa had lied. She had given me wine,
waited until I slept, and then struck —
I could think of nothing else.
We reached the cabin. Doctor Meroux
knelt beside the bed where Violet lay. She
turned and smiled at me, weakly.
"She’s still alive?” I gasped.
"Yes. Her throat was torn, but I arrived
and stopped the bleeding. It isn’t too se-
rious, but she’s been badly frightened. Keep
her quiet for a day or so.”
I knelt beside my wife, pressed my lips
to her cheek above the bandaged neck.
“Thank .God for that,” I whispered.
"Don’t question her,” Meroux advised,
"Let her rest now. Evidently I arrived just
after the attack. The wolf m.ust have come
in through the window. You’ll notice the
shattered glass. When I came near it bolted
out again and scampered off. The tracks
are all around.”
THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF’’
19
I walked outside the cabin with him. It
was as he said.
"The hunting party will be here shortly,”
he told me. "They can pick up the trail
easily enough now, I think."
Inodded.
Suddenly the baying sounded from the
forest. The voices of frantic men blended
with the equally frenzied irlulations of the
dogs.
Doctor Meroux tweaked his mustache and
turned. "They must have found it!” he
cried. "Listen!”
Shouts and and murmurs. Sounds of
scrabbling in the underbrush. A shrill cry.
And then —
A volley of rifle shots.
"Norn de Dieu! They have it!” the doc-
tor exulted.
Baying of hounds, closer now. Running
footsteps snapped twigs in the brush be-
yond. Voices sounded near.
And then, out of the clearing before the
cabin, crawled the vcolf.
T he great gray beast was panting, spent. It
dragged its broken body across the open
space, leaving a black trail of blood. The
huge head was lolling, fangs agape, and it
wheezed painfully as it made its way toward
us.
Meroux pulled out a revolver, cocked it.
I held his hand.
"No,” I w'hispered. "No!”
I walked toward the wolf. Its eyes met
mine, but they held no recognition — cmly
the glaze of descending death.
"Lisa,” I whispered. "You couldn’t wait.”
The doctor didn’t hear my mutterings,
but the wolf did. The head jerked up, and
for a moment a strangled sound issued from
the shaggy throat.
Then the wolf died.
I saw it die. That was simple enough. Its
paws stiffened, the head came down, and the
wolf lay prone.
I could stand watching the wolf die.
What came next v^as not so easy to en-
dure.
For Lisa died.
When I had witnessed the change from
woman to wolf, I coldly timed it w'ith my
watch.
Now, watching the transformation of
wolf to w'oman, I could only shudder and
cry out.
The body expanded, writhed, flexed. The
ears sank into the skull, the limbs elongated,
put forth white flesh. Dr. Meroux was
shouting beside me, but I couldn’t hear what
he said. I could only stare as the wolf-form
vanished and Lisa’s nude loveliness burst
into view like a blossoming flower — a pale
white lily of death.
She lay there, a dead girl in the moon-
light. I sobbed and turned away.
"No — it cannot be!”
The doctor’s harsh voice recalled me. He
pointed with a palsied finger at the white
form at our feet.
I stared and saw — another change!
This change I cannot bear to describe. I
can only remember, now, that Lisa had
never told me just how or when she had be-
come a victim of lycanthropy. I can only
remember that the feast of the werewolf
preserves an unnatural youth.
For the woman at our feet aged before
our eyes.
Woman to wolf — such a metamorphosis
is hideous enough to behold. But more
shocking still was this final abomination.
The lovely girl became a raddled hag.
And the hag became — ^worse.
At the end, something incredibly old lay
lifeless on the ground. Something wrinkled
and shrivelled gaped up at the moon with a
mummy’s grin.
Lisa had assumed her rightful shape at
last.
T he rest must have happened very
swiftly. The men came, with the dogs.
Dr. Meroux bent over the thing that had
been wolf and woman, and now was neither.
I fainted.
When I awoke the following afternoon,
Dr. Meroux was dressing Violet’s wound.
She was well enough to be up, and she
brought me some soup. I slept again.
The following morning Meroux came
again. I felt strong enough to sit up, and to
question him. What he had to report reas-
sured me.
Apparently, Dr. Meroux had been wise.
He had confirmed the werewolf story, but
he did not identify the dead creature as Lisa.
With Cragin’s help, the matter was being
20
WEIRD TALES
hushed up. After all, there was no point in
any further investigation. For the sake of
local policy, it was best for all concerned to
let it drop.
Violet was almost her old self again.
Last night I made a full confession to
her.
She only smiled.
Perhaps, when she is rested, she will re-
turn to the city and divorce me. I do not
know. She had not offered forgiveness, nor
any comment. She seems restless, perturbed.
Today she went out for a walk.
I have been sitting all afternoon, typing
out this account. I imagine now, since the
sun had set, that she will return. Unless she
had already slipped off quietly to the city.
Still, with that wound still half-healed, she
probably wouldn’t travel yet.
The moon is coming up across the lake,
but I don’t want to look at it. I can’t seem to
bear any reminder of what happened. By
writing this, I hope to cleanse myself of the
memories.
Perhaps I can find a measure of peace in
the future. I’m sure now that Violet hates
me, but she will get her divorce and I shall
carry on.
Yes. She looked as if she hated me. Be-
cause I sent a werewolf to kill her —
But I’m rambling. I mustn’t think of
that. No.
And yet I have to think of something. I
don’t want to stop writing, yet. Then I’d
be forced to sit here alone, while the night
comes down like a dark shroud over a dead
earth.
Yes, I’d have to sit here and listen to the
stillness. I’d have to watch the moon rising
over the lake, and wait for Violet to return.
I wonder where she has v/andered today?
With that wound in her throat, it isn’t good
for her to be out.
That wound in her throat — where Lisa
bit her.
There’s something I’m trying to remem-
ber about that. I can’t seem to think clearly.
But I know I’m trying to recall a point about
her w'ound. It all ties in with my fear of the
moonlight and being alone here.
What is it?
Noiv I knoiv!
Yes. I remember.
And I pray that Violet has wandered off,
that she does not come back.
She was restless today, and she went oft'
alone in the v/oods. I know w^hy she left.
The wound is working.
I RECALL what Lisa said w*hen I told her
that little Yvonne had died. She thanked
God — because if Yvonne had survived her
bite, she too would have become a . . .
Violet was bitten. Violet didn’t die. Now
the wound is working. And the moon is
high, high over the lake. Violet, running
through the forest, is a . . .
- There! Outside the window — I can see
her!
I can see — it.
It is creeping tow'ard the cabin as I write.
I can see it in the moonlight; the moonlight
that glistens on the sleek fur along its back.
'The moonlight is gleaming on the black
snout, too, and on sharp, pointed fangs.
Violet hates me.
Violet is coming back. But not as — a
w'-oman.
Wait! Did I lock the door? Yes.
Good. She can’t enter. Look at her paw-
ing at the outside of the door. Scratching.
And whining, deep in her throat. That
throat — those jaws!
Perhaps Cragin will come, or Dr. Mer-
oux. If not. I’ll spend the night sitting
here. In the morning she wdll go away.
Then, when she shows up again I can
have her put away.
Yes, I’ll wait.
But listen to that howling! It gets on my
nerves. She knows I’m in here. She can
hear me typing. She know's. And if she
could get at me —
She can’t. I’m safe here.
Now what is she up to? She isn’t at the
door any more. I can hear those paws pad-
ding, moving around under die window,
The windoiv.
The pane of glass was shattered when
Lisa came the other night. There is no glass
in the window —
She’s howling. She’s going to leap in.
Yes.
I see it now . . . the body of a leaping
wolf against the moonlight ... Violet . . ,
no . , . Vio . , .
Wey/r
/Catchers
*f When did you last kill a fly? Yes, you! Have a care .... and listen! jn
I N THIS room the sound of the tapping
of the typewriter keys is like knuckles
on wood, and my perspiration falls
dov/n upon the keys that are being punched
unceasingly by my trembling fingers. And
over and above the sound of my writing
comes the ironical melody of a mosquito
circling over my bent head, and a number of
flies buzzing and colliding with the wire
screen. And around the naked filament-
skeleton of the yellow bulb in the ceiling
a bit of torn white paper that is a moth flut-
ters. An ant crawls up the wall; I watch it —
I laugh with a steady, unceasing bitterness.
How ironical the shining flies and the red
ants and the armoured crickets. How mis-
taken we three were: Susan and I and Wil-
liam Tinsley.
Whoever you are, w'herever you are, if
you do happen upon this, do not ever again
By RAY BRADBURY
Heading by BORIS DOLGOV
21
:22
WEIRD TALES
crush the ants upon the sidewalk, do not
smash the bumblebee that thunders by your
window, do not annihilate the cricket upon
your hearth!
That’s where Tinsley made his colossal
error. You remember William Tinsley, cer-
tainly? The man who threw away a million
dollars on fly-sprays and insecticides and ant-
pastes?
There was never a spot for a fly or a mios-
quito in Tinsley’s office. Not a white wall or
green desk or any immaculate surface where
a fly might land before Tinsley destroyed it
with an instantaneous stroke of his magni-
ficent flyswatter. I shall never forget that in-
strument of death. Tinsley, a monarch, ruled
his industry with that flyswatter as a scepter.
I was Tinsley’s secretary and right-hand
man in his kitchenware iniistry; sometimes
I advised him on his many investments.
Tinsley carried the flyswatter to work with
him under his arm in July, 1944. By the
week’s end, if I happened to be in one of the
filing alcoves out of sight when Tinsley ar-
rived, I could always tell of his arrival when
I heard the swicldng, whistling -passage of
the flyswatter through the air as Tinsley
killed his morning quota.
As the days passed, I noted Tinsley’s pre-
occupied alertness. He’d dictate to me, but
his eyes would be searching the north-
south-east-west v/alls, the rug, the bookcases,
even my clothing. Once I laughed and made
some comment about Tinsley and Clyde
Beatty being fearless animal trainers, and
Tinsley froze and turned his back on me. I
shut up. People have a right, I thought, to
be as damned eccentric as they please.
"Hello, Steve.’’ Tinsley waved his fly-
swatter one morning as I poised my pencil
over my pad. "Before we start, would you
mind cleaning away the corpses.”
Spread in a rumpled trail over the tliick
sienna rug were the fallen conquered, the
flies; silent, mashed, dewinged. I threw
them one by one in the waste-fin, muttering.
"To S. H. Little, Philadelphia. Dear
Little; 'S^vill invest money in your insect
spray. Five thousand dollars — ”
"Five thousand?” I complained. I stopped
writing.
'Tinsley ignored me. "Five thousand dol-
lars. Advise immediate production as soon
as war conditions permit. Sincerely.” Tin-
sley twisted his flyswatter. "You think I’m
crazy,” he said.
"Is that a p.s., or are you talking to me?”
I asked.
the phone rang and it w'-as the Termite
Control Company, to whom Tinsley told me
to write a thousand-dollar check for having
termite-proofed his house. Tinsley patted
his metal chair. "One thing I like about my
offices — all iron, cement, solid; not a chance
for termites.”
He leaped from his chair, the swatter
shone swiftly in the air.
"Damn it, Steve, has THAT been here all
this time!”
Something buzzed in a small arc some-
where, into siience. The four walls moved
in around us in that silence, it seemed, the
blank ceiling stared over us and Tinsley’s
breath ached through his nostrils. I couldn’t
see the infernal insect anywhere. Tinsley
exploded. "Help me find it! Damn you,
help me!”
■'Now, hold on — ” I retorted.
Somebody rapped on the door.
"Stay out!” Tinsley’s yell was high, afraid.
"Get away from the door, and stay away!”
He flung himself headlong, bolted the door
with a frantic gesture and lay against it,
wildly searching the room. "Quickly now%
Steve, systematically! Don’t sit there!”
Desk, chairs, chandelier, walls. Like an
insane animal, Tinsley searched, found the
buzzing, struck at it. A bit of insensate glit-
ter fell to the floor where he crushed it with
his foot in a queerly triumphant sort or
action.
He started to dress me down but I
wouldn’t have it. "Look here,” I came back
at him. "I’m a secretary and right-hand
stooge, not a spotter for high-flying insects.
I haven’t got eyes in the back of my head!”
"Either have they!” cried Tinsley. "So
you know what They do?”
"They? Who in hell are They?”
He shut up. He went to his desk and sat
down, w'earily, and finally said, "Never
mind. Forget it. Don’t talk about this to
anyone.”
I softened up. "Bill, you should go see a
psychiatrist about — ■”
Tinsley laughed bitterly. "And the psy-
chiatrist would tell his wife, and she’d tell
others, and then They’d find out. They’re
Sthe watchers
23
ever}’where, They are. I don’t want to be
stopped with my campaign.”
' If you mean the one hundred thousand
bucks you’ve sunk in your insect sprays and
ant pastes in the last four weeks,” I said.
"Someone should stop you. You’ll break
yourself, me, and the stockholders. Honest
to God, Tinsley — ”
"Shut up!” he said. "You don’t under-
stand.”
I guess I didn’t, then. I went back to my
office and all day long I heard that damned
flyswatter hissing in the air.
1 HAD supper with Susan Miller that eve-
ning. I told her about Tinsley and she
lent a sympathetically professional ear.
Then she tapped her cigarette and lit it and
said, “Steve, I may be a psychiatrist, but I
wouldn’t have a tinker’s chance in hell, un-
less Tinsley came to see me. I couldn’t help
him unless he wanted help.” She patted my
arm. "I'll look him over for you, if you in-
sist, though, for old time’s sake. But half the
fight’s lost if the patient won’t cooperate.”
"You’ve got to help me, Susan,” I said.
"He’ll be stark raving in another month. I
think he has delusions of persecution — ”
We drove to Tinsley’s house.
The first date worked out well. We
laughed, we danced, we dined late at the
Brown Derby, and Tinsley didn’t suspect
for a moment that the slender, soft-voiced
woman he held in his arms to a v/altz was a
psychiatrist picking his reactions apart. From
the table, I v/atched them, together, and I
shielded a small laugh with my hand, and
heard Susan laughing at one of his jokes.
We drove along the road in a pleasant,
relaxed silence, the silence that follows on
the heels of a good, happy evening. The
perfume of Susan w^as in the car, the radio
played dimly, and the car v^ieels v/hirled
with a slight whisper over the highway.
I looked at Susan and she at me, her
brows going up to indicate that she’d found
nothing so far this evening to show that
Tinsley was in any way unbalanced. I
shrugged.
At that very instant, a moth flew in the
window, fluttering, flickering its velvety
white wings upon the imprisoning glass.
Tinsley screamed, v/renched tlie car invol-
untarily, struck out a gloved hand at the
moth, gabbling, his face pale. The tires wob-
bled. Susan seized the steering wheel firmly
and held the car on the road until we slowed
to a stop.
As we pulled up, Tinsley crushed the
moth between tightened fingers and watched
the odorous powder of it sift down upon
Susan’s arm. We sat there, the three of us,
breathing rapidly.
Susan looked at me, and this time there
was comprehension in her eyes. I nodded.
Tinsley looked straight ahead, then. In a
dream he said, "Ninety-nine percent of ail
life in the world is insect life — ”
He rolled up the windows without an-
other word, and drove us home.
Susan phoned me an hour later. "Steve,
he’s built a terrific complex for himself. I’m
having lunch with him tomorrow. He likes
me. I might find out what we w'ant to knovr.
By the way, Steve, does he own any pets?”
Tinsley had never owned a cat or dog. Ke
detested animals.
"I might have expected that,” said Susan.
"Well, good-night, Steve, see you tomor-
row.”
The flies were breeding thick and golden
and buzzing like a million intricately fine
electric machines in the pouring direct light
of summer noon. In vortexes they whirled
and curtained and fell upon refuse to injett
their eggs, to mate, to flutter, to whirl again,
as I watched them, and in their whirling my
mind intermixed, I wondered why Tinsley
should fear them so, should dread and kill
them, and as I walked the streets, all about
me, cutting arcs and spaces from the sky,
omnipresent flies hummed and sizzled and
beat their lucid wings. I counted darning
needles, mud-daubers and hornets, yellow
bees and brown ants. The world was sud-
denly much more alive to me than ever be-
fore, because Tinsley’s apprehensive aware-
ness had set me aware.
B efore I Imew my actions, brushing a
small red ant from my coat that had
fallen from a lilac bush as I passed, I turned
in at a familiar white house and knew it to
be Lav'yer Remington’s, who had been Tin-
sley’s family representative for forty years,
even before Tinsley was born. Remington
was only a business acquaintance to me, but
there I was, touching his gate and ringing
24
WEIRD TALES
his bell and in a few minutes looking at
him over a sparkling good glass of his
sherry.
"I remember,” said Remington, remem-
bering. "Poor Tinsley. He was only seven-
teen when it happened.”
I leaned forward intently. "It happened?”
The ant raced in wild frenzies upon the
golden stubble on my fingers backs, becom-
ing entangled in the bramble of my wrist,
turning back, hopelessly clenching its man-
dibles. I watched the ant. "Some unfortu-
nate accident?”
Lawyer Remington nodded grimly and
the memory lay raw and naked in his old
brown eyes. He spread the memory out on
the table and pinned it down so I could look
at it, with a few accurate words:
"Tinsley’s father took him hunting up in
the Lake Arrowhead region in the autumn
of the young lad’s seventeenth year. Beauti-
ful country, a lovely clear cold autumn day.
I remember it because I was hunting not
seventy miles from there on that selfsame
afternoon. Game was plentiful. You could
hear the sound of guns passing over and
back across the lalces through the scent of
pine trees. Tinsley’s father leaned his gun
against a bush to lace his shoe, when a
flurry of quail arose, some of them, in their
fright, straight at Tinsley senior and his
son.”
Remington looked into his glass to see
what he was telling. "A quail knodced the
gun down, it fired off, and the charge struck
the elder 'Tinsley full in the face!”
"Good God!"
In my mind I saw the elder Tinsley stag-
ger, grasp at his red mask of face, drop his
hands now gloved with scarlet fabric, and
fall, even as the young boy, struck numb and
ashen, swayed and could not believe what he
saw.
I drank my sherry hastily, and Remington
continued :
"But that wasn’t the least horrible of de-
tails. One might think it sufficient. But
what followed later was something inde-
scribable to the lad. He ran five miles for
help, leaving his father behind, dead, but
refusing to believe him dead. Screaming,
panting, ripping his clothes from his body,
young Tinsley made it to a road and back
w'ith a doctor and two other men in some-
thing like six hours. The sun was just going
down when they hurried back through the
pine forest to where the father lay.” Rem-
ington paused and shook his head from side
to side, eyes closed. "The entire body,- the
arms, the legs, and the shattered contour of
what was once a strong, handsome face, was
clustered over and covered with scuttling,
twitching, insects, bugs, ants of every and all
descriptions, drawn by the sweet odor of
blood. It was impossible to see one square
inch of the elder Tinsley’s body!”
M entally, I created the pine trees,
and the three men towering over the
small boy who stood before a body upon
which a tide of small attentively hungry
creatures ebbed and flowed, subsided and
returned. Somewhere, a woodpecker
knocked, a squirrel scampered, and the quail
beat their small wings. And the three men
held onto the small boy’s arms and turned
him away from the sight. . . .
Some of the boy’s agony and terror must
have escaped my lips, for when my mind re-
turned to the library, I fomrd Remington
staring at me, and my sherry glass broken in
half causing a bleeding cut whidi I did not
feel.
“So that’s why Tinsley has this fear of in-
sects and animals,” I breathed, several min-
utes later, settling back, my heart pounding.
"And it’s grown like a yeast over the years,
to obsess him.”
Remington expressed an interest in Tin-
sley’s problem, but I allayed him and in-
quired, "What was his father’s profession?”
"I thought you knew!” cried Remington
in faint surprise. "Why the elder Tinsley
was a very famous naturalist. Very famous
indeed. Ironic, in a way, isn’t it, that he
should be killed by the very creatures which
he studied, eh?”
"Yes.” I rose up and shook Remington’s
hand. "Thanks, Lawyer. You’ve helped me
very much. I must get going now.”
"Good-by.”
I stood in the open air before Remington’s
house and the ant still scrambled over my
hand, wildly. I began to understand and
sympathize deeply with Tinsley for the first
time. I went to pick up Susan in my car.
Susan pushed the veil of her hat back
from her eyes and looked off into the dis-
THE WATCHERS
tance and said, "What you’ve told me pretty
well puts the finger on Tinsley, all right.
He’s been brooding.” She waved a hand.
"Look around. See how easy it would be to
believe that insects are really the horrors he
makes them out to be. There’s a Monarch
butterfly pacing us.” She flicked a fingernail.
"Is it listening to our every word? Tinsley
the elder was a naturalist. What happened?
He interfered, busybodied where he wasn’t
wanted, so They, 'They who control the ani-
mals and insects, killed him. Night and day
for the last ten years that thought has been
on Tinsley’s mind, and everj'where he
looked he saw the numerous life of the
world and the suspicions began to take
shape, form and substance!”
"I can’t say I blame him,” I said. "If my
father had been killed in a like fashion — ”
"He refuses to talk when there’s an insect
in the room, isn’t that it, Steve?”
"Yes, he’s afraid they’ll discover that he
know's about them.”
"You can see how silly that is, yourself,
can’t you. He couldn’t possibly keep it a
secret, grariting that butterflies and ants and
houseflies are evil, for you and I have talked
about it, and others too. But he persists in
his delusion that as long as he himself says
no word in Their presence . . . well, he’s
still alive, isn’t he? 'They haven’t destroyed
him, have they? And if They were evil and
feared his knowledge, wouldn’t they have
destroyed him long since?”
"Maybe they’re playing with him?” I
wondered. "You know it is strange. The
Elder Tinsley was on the verge of some
great discovery when he was killed. It sort
of fits a pattern.”
"I’d better get you out of this hot sun,”
laughed Susan, swerving the car into a shady
lane.
T he next Sunday morning, Bill Tinsley
and Susan and I attended church and sat
in the middle of the soft music and the vast
muteness and quiet color. During the serv-
ice, Bill began to laugh to himself until I
shoved him in the ribs and asked him v/hat
was wrong.
"Look at the Reverend up there,” replied
Tinsley, fascinated. "There’s a fly on his
bald spot. A fly in church. 'They go every-
where, I tell you. Let the minister talk, it
won’t do a bit of good. Oh, gentle, lord.”
After the service we drove for a picnic
lunch in the country under a warm 'nlue sky.
A few times, Susan tried to get Bill on the
subject of his fear, but Bill only pointed at
the train of ants swarming across the picnic
linen and shook his head, angrily. Later, he
apologized and with a certain tenseness,
asked us to come up to his house that eve-
ning, he couldn’t go on much longer by him-
self, he was running low on funds, the
business was liable to go on the rocks, and
he needed us. Susan and I held onto his
hands and understood. In a matter of forty
minutes we were inside the locked study of
his house, cocktails in our midst, with Tin-
sley pacing anxiously back and forth, dan-
dling his familiar flyswatter, searching the
room and killing two flies before he made
his speech.
He tapped the wall. "Metal. No maggots,
ticks, woodbeetles, termites. Metal chairs,
metal everything. We’re alone, aren’t we?”
I looked around. "I think so.”
"Good.” Bill drew in a breath and ex-
haled. "Have you ever wondered about God
and the Devil and the Universe, Susan,
Steve? Have you ever realized how cruel the
world is? How we try to get ahead, but are
hit over the head every time we succeed a
fraction?” I nodded silently, and Tinsley
went on. "You sometimes wonder where
God is, or where the Forces of Evil are. You
wonder how these forces get aroimd, if they
are invisible angels. Well, the solution is
simple and clever and scientific. We are
being watched constantly. Is there ever a
minute in our lives that passes without a fly
buzzing in our room with us, or an ant
crossing our path, or a flea on a dog, or a
cat itself, or a beetle or moth rushing
through the dark, or a mosquito skirting
around a netting?”
Susan said nothing, but looked at Tinsley
easily and without making him self-con-
scious. Tinsley sipped his drink.
"Small winged things we pay no heed to,
that follow us every day of our lives, that
listen to our prayers and our hopes and our
desires and fears, that listen to us and then
tell what there is to be told to Him or Her
or It, or whatever Force sends them out into
the world.”
"Oh, come now,” I said impulsively.
26
WEIRD TALES
To my surprise, Susan hushed me. "Let
him finish,” she said. Then she looked at
Tinsley. “Go on.”
Tinsley said, “It sounds silly, but I’ve
gone about this in a fairly scientific manner.
First, I’ve never been able to figure out a
reason for so many insects, for their varied
profusion. They seem to be nothing but irri-
tants to we mortals, at the very least. Well,
a very simple explanation is as follows: the
government of Them is a small body, it may
be one person alone, and It or They can’t be
everywhere. Flies can be. So can ants and
other insects. And since vre mortals cannot
tell one ant from another, all identity is im-
possible and one fly is as good as another,
their set-up is perfect. There are so many
of them and there have been so many for
years, that we pay no attention to them. Like
Hawthorne’s 'Scarlet Letter,’ they are right
before our eyes and familiarity has blinded
us to them.”
“I don’t believe any of that,” I said di-
rectly.
"Let me finish!” cried Tinsley, hurriedly.
“Before you judge. There is a' Force, and it
must have a contactual system, a communi-
citive set-up, so that life can be twisted and
adjusted according to each individual. Think
it, billions of insects, checking, correlat-
ing and reporting on their special subjects,
controlling humanity!”
“Look here!” I burst out. “You’ve grown
worse ever since that accident back when you
were a kid! You’ve let it feed on your mind!
You can’t go on fooling yourself!” I got up.
“Steve!” Susan rose, too, her cheeks red-
dening. "You won’t help with talk like
th.it! Sit down.” She pressed against my
chest. Then she turned rapidly to Tinsley.
"Bill, if what you say should be true, if all
of your plans, I’^our insect-proofing your
house, your silence in the presence of their
small winged creatures, your, campaign, your
ant pastes and pitifully small insect sprays,
.should really mean something, why are you
■Still alive?”
"Why?” shouted Tinsley. “Because, I’ve
v/r.rked alone.”
"But if there is a They, Bill, They have
known of you for a month now, because
Steve and I have told them, haven’t we
Steve, and yet you live. Isn’t that proof that
you must be wrong.”
“You told them? You told!” Tinsley’s
eyes showed white and furious. “No, you
didn’t, I made Steve promise!”
"Listen to me.” Susan’s voice shook him,
as she might shake a small boy by the scruff
of his neck, "Listen, before you scream. Will
you agree to an experiment?”
“What kind of experiment?”
“From now on, all of your plans will be
above-board, in the open. If nothing hap-
pens to you in the next eight weeks, then
you’ll have to agree that your fears are base-
less.”
"But they’ll kill me!”
“Listen! Steve and I will stake our lives
on it. Bill. If you die, Steve and I’ll die with
you. I value my life greatly. Bill, and Steve
values his. We don’t believe in your horrors,
and we want to get you out of this.”
Tinsley hung his head and looked at the
floor. "I don’t know. I don’t knovr.”
"Eight weeks, Bill. You can go on the
rest of your life, if you v.dsh, manufacturing
insecticides, but for God’s sake don’t have a
nervous breakdown over it. Hie very fact of
your living should be some sort of proof that
They bear you no ill-will, and have left you
intact?”
INSLEY had to admit to that. But he
was reluctant to give in. He murmured
almost to himself, "This is the beginning of
the campaign. It might take a thousand
years, but in the end we can liberate our-
selves.”
“You can be liberated in eight w'eeks.
Bill, don’t you see? If we can prove that in-
sects are blameless? For the next eight
weeks, carry on your campaign, advertise it
in v/eekly magazines and papers, thrust it to
the hilt, tell everyone, so that if you should
die, the word v/ill be left behind. Then,
when the eight weeks are up, you’ll be liber-
ated and free, and won’t that feel good to
you. Bill, after all these years?”
Something happened then that startled us.
Buzzing over our heads, a fly came by. It
had been in the room with us all the time,
and yet I had sworn that, earlier, I had seen
none. Tinsley began to shiver. I didn’t know
what I was doing, I seemed to react mechani-
caHy to some inner drive. I grabbed at the
air and caught the tight buzzing in a cupped
hand. Then I crushed it bard, staring at
THE WATCHERS
27
Bill and Susan. Their faces were chalky.
"I got it,” I said, cra 2 ily. "I got the
damned thing, and I don’t know why.”
I opened my hand. The fly dropped to
the floor. I stepped on it as I had seen Bill
often step on them, and my body was cold
for no reason. Susan stared at me as if she’d
lost her last friend.
"What am I saying?” I cried. "I don’t be-
lieve a damn word of all this filth!”
It was dark outside the thick-glassed win-
dow. Tinsley managed to light a cigarette
and then, because all three of us were in a
strange state of nerves, offered to let us have
rooms in the house for the night. Susan said
she would stay if: "you promise to give the
eight- week trial a chance.”
"You’d risk your life on it?” Bill couldn’t
make Susan out.
Susan nodded gravely. "We’ll be joking
about it next year.”
Bill said, "All fight. The eight-week trial
it is.”
My room, upstairs, had a fine view of the
spreading country hills. Susan stayed in the
room next to mine, and Bill slept across the
hall. Lying in bed I heard the crickets
chirping outside my v/indow, and I could
hardly bear the sound.
I closed the window.
Later in the night I got no sleep so I be-
gan imagining that a mosquito was soaring
freely about in the dark of my room. Finally,
I robed myself and fumbled down to the
kitchen, not actually hungry, but wanting
something to do to stop my nervousness. I
found Susan bending over the refrigerator
trays, selecting food.
We looked at one another. We handed
plates of stuff to the table and sat stiffly
down. 'The world was unreal to us. Some-
how, being around Tinsley made the uni-
verse insecure and misty underfoot. Susan,
for all her training and mind-culture, was
still a woman, and deep under, women are
superstitious.
To top it all, w'e were about to plunge our
knives into the half-shattered carcass of a
chicken when a fly landed upon it.
We sat looking at the fly for five minutes.
The fly walked around on the chicken, flew
up, circled, and came back to promenade a
drumsticl:.
We put the chicken back in the ice-box,
joking very quietly about it, talked uneasily
for awhile, and returned upstairs, where we
shut our doors and felt alone. I climbed into
bed and began ha-eing bad dreams before 1
shut my eyes. My wrist-watch set up an
abominable loud clicking in the blackness,
and it had clicked several thousand times
when I heard the scream.
I DON’T mind hearing a woman scream
occasionally, but a man’s scream is so
strange, and is heard so rarely, that when it
finally comes, it turns your blood into an
arctic torrent. The screaming seemed to be
borne all through the house and it seemed I
heard some frantic words babbled that
sounded like, "Now I know why They let
me live!”
I pulled the door wide in time to see Tin-
sley running down the hall, his clothing
drenched and soaked, his body wet from
head to foot. He turned v/hen he saw me,
and cried out, "Stay away from me, oh God,
Steve, don’t touch me, or it’ll happen to you,
too! I was wrong! I was wrong, yes, but
near the truth, too, so very near!”
Before I could prevent him, he had de-
scended the stairs and slammed the door be-
low. Susan suddenly stood beside me. "He’s
gone mad for certain this time, Steve, we’ve
got to stop him.”
A noise from the bathroom drew my at-
tention. Peering in, I turned off the shower
which was steaming hot, drumming insist-
ently, scaldingly, on the yellow tiles.
Bill’s car thundered into life, a jerking of
gears, and the car careened down the road at
an insane speed.
"We’ve got to follow him,” insisted
Susan. "He’ll kill himself! He’s trying to
run away from something. Where’s your
car?”
We ran to my car through a cold wind,
under very cold stars, climbed in, warmed
the motor, and were off, bewildered and
breathless. "Which way?” I shouted.
"He went east, I’m certain.”
"East it is, then.” I poked up the speed
and muttered, "Oh, Bill, you idiot, you fool.
Slow down. Come back. Wait for me, you
nut.” I felt Susan’s arm creep through my
elbow and hold tight. She whispered,
"Faster!” and I said, "We’re going sixty
now, and there are some bad turns coming!”
28
WEIRD TALES
The night had gotten into us; the talk of
insects, the wind, the roaring of the tires
over hard concrete, the beating of our fright-
ened hearts. "There!” Susan pointed. I saw
a gash of light cutting through the hills a
mile away. "More speed, Steve!”
More speed. Aching foot pressing out
the miles, motor thundering, stars wheeling
crazily overhead, lights cutting the dark
away into dismembered sections. And in my
mind I saw Tinsley again, in the hall,
drenched to the skin. He had been standing
under the hot, scalding shower! Why? Why?
"Bill, stop, you idiot! Stop driving!
Where are you going, what are you running
away from, Bill?”
We were catching up with him now. We
drew closer, yard by yard, bit by bit, around
curves where gravity yanked at us and tried
tc smash us against huge granite bulwarks
of earth, over hills and dovm into night-
filled valleys, over streams and bridges,
around curves again.
"He’s only about six hundred yards ahead,
now,” said Susan.
"We’ll get him.” I twisted the wheel. "So
help me God, we’ll get to him!”
'Then, quite unexpectedly, it happened.
T INSLEY’S car slowed down. It slowed
and crept along the road. We were on a
straight length of concrete that continued
for a mile in a firm line, no curves or hills.
His car slowed to a crawling, puttering pace.
By the time we pulled up in back of him,
Tinsley’s roadster was going three miles an
hour, just poking along at a pace like a man
walking, its lights glaring.
"Steve — ” Susan’s fingernails cut my
wrist, tight, hard. "Something’s— v/rong.”
I knew it. I honked the horn. Silence. I
honked again and it was a lonely, blatant
sound in the darkness and the emptiness. I
parked the car. Tinsley’s car moved on like
a metal snail ahead of us, its exhaust v/his-
pering to the night. I opened the door and
.slid out. "Stay here,” I warned Susan. In
the reflected glare her face was like snow
and her lips were trembling.
I ran to the car, calling, "Bill, Bill — !”
Tinsley didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He just lay there behind the wheel, qui-
etly, and the car moved ahead, slowly, so
very slov/ly.
I got sick to my stomach. I reached in and
braked the car and cut the ignition, not look-
ing at him, my mind working in a slow kind
of new and frightened horror.
I looked once more at Bill where he
slumped with his head back.
It didn’t do any good to kill flies, kill
moths, kill termites, kill mosquitoes. The
Evil ones were too clever for that.
Kill all the insects you find, destroy the
dogs and the cats and the birds, the weasels
and the chipmunks, and the termites, and
all animals and insects in the world, it can
be done, eventually by man, killing, killing
killing, and after you are finished, after that
job is done you still have — ^microbes.
Bacteria. Microbes. Yes. Unicellular and
bi-cellular and multi-cellular microscopic
life!
Millions of them, billions of them on
every pore, on every inch of flesh of your
body. On your lips when you speak, inside
your ears when you listen, on your skin
when you feel, on your tongue when you
taste, in your eyes when you see! You can’t
wash them off, you can’t destroy all of them
in the world! It would be an impossible task,
impossible! You discovered that, didn’t you.
Bill. I stared at him. ’We almost convinced
you, didn’t we, Bill, that insects were not
guilty, were not Watchers. We were right
about that part of it. We convinced you and
you got to thinking tonight, and you hit
upon the real crux of the situation. Bacteria.
That’s why the shower was running at home
just now! But you can’t kill bacteria fast
enough. They multiply and multiply, in-
stantly!
I looked at Bill, slumped there. "The fly-
swatter, you thought the flyswatter was
enough. That’s a — laugh.”
Bill, is that you lying there with your
body changed by leprosy and gangrene and
tuberculosis and malaria and bubonic all at
once? Where is the skin of your face, Bill,
and the flesh of your bones, your fingers ly-
ing clenched to the steering wheel. Oh, God,
Tinsley, the color and the smell of you — the
rotting fetid combination of disease you are!
Microbes. Messengers. Millions of them.
Billions of them.
God can’t be everywhere at once. Maybe
He invented flies, insects to watch his peo-
ples.
THE WATCHERS
29
But the Evil Ones were brilliant, too.
They invented bacteria!
Bill, you look so different . . . .
You’ll not tell your secret to the world
now. I returned to Susan, looked in at her, not
able to speak. I could only point for her to
go home, without me. I had a job to do, to
drive Bill’s car into the ditch and set fire to
him and it. Susan drove away, not looking
back.
A nd now, tonight, a week later, I am
typing this out for what it is worth,
here and now, in the summer evening, with
flies buzzing about my room. Now I realize
why Bill Tinsley lived so long. While his
efforts were directed against insects, ants,
birds, animals, who were representatives of
the Good Forces, the Evil Forces let him go
ahead. Tinsley, unaware, was working for
the Evil Ones. But when he comprehended
that bacteria were the real enemy, and were
more numerous and invisibly insidious, then
the Evil Ones demolished him.
In my mind, I still remember the picture
of the Eider Tinsley’s death, when he was
shot as a result of the quail flying against his
gun. On the face of it, it doesn’t seem to fit
into the picture. Why would the quail, rep-
resentative of Good, kill the Elder Tinsley?
The answer to this comes clear now. Quail,
too, have disease, and disease disrupts their
neutral set-up, and disease, on that day long
ago, caused the birds to strike down Tin-
sley’s v/eapon, killing him, and thus, subtly,
animals and insects.
And another thought in my mind is the
picture of the Elder Tinsley as he lay covered
with ants in a red, quivering blanket. And
I wonder if perhaps they were not giving
solace to him in his dying and decay, talking
in some silent mandibled tongue none of us
can hear until we die. Or perhaps they are
all.
The game of chess continues. Good
against Evil, I hope. And I am losing.
Tonight I sit here writing and waiting,
and my skin itches and softens, and Susan is
on the other side of town, unaware, safe
from this knowledge which I must set on
paper even if it kills me. I listen to the
flies, as if to detect some good message in
their uneven whirring, but I hear nothing.
Even as I write, the skin of my fingers
loosens and changes color and m.y face feels
partially dry and flaking, partially wet, slip-
pery and released from its anchorage of soft-
ening bone, my eyes water with a kind of
leprosy and my skin darkens v/ith something
akin to bubonic, my stomach gripes me with
siclcening gastric wrenches, my tongue tastes
bitter and acid, my teeth loosen in my
mouth, my ears ring, and in a few minutes
the structure of my fingers, the muscles, the
small thin fine bones will be enmeshed, en-
tangled, so much fallen gelatin spread over
and down between the black lettered keys of
this typev/riter, the flesh of me will slide like
a decayed, diseased cloak from my skeleton,
but I must write on and on and on until
etaoin shrdiucmfwyp cmfwyp . . . cmfwaaaaa
ddddddddddddddddddd
B rian CULLAN had flown the big
army amphibian plane almost half-
• way back across the North Atlantic to
America, when he saw the sign in the sky.
Every mile that had slipped behind them
had lessened a little the war-weariness that
had sagged CuIIan’s lean shoulders and put
premature lines of age in his dark, worn
young face. The war was over, and they
were going home, and Ire felt dull, tired
relief.
An odd darkness was gathering in the
sunlit sky around them, an increasing ob-
scurity as of coming storm. Cullan and his
co-pilot, squat, merry Jeff Lewis, had been
watching it. Then suddenly, lightning
flared through the obscurity — lightning that
for a moment seemed to take the form of a
flaming, spinning circle.
"Lugh’s wheel!” exclaimed Cullan, an
uncanny thrill jerking him bolt upright in
his seat. "The sign of Tir Sorcha!”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
demanded Lewis.
Cullan saw that freak of curving light-
ning vanish as he spoke. The queer thrill
of eeriness left him.
He smiled a little shamefacedly. "An
old Celtic superstition. My people came
originally from Ulster, you know. I still
There is a strange, unseeable Elysium that exists out in the western sea,
home of a great pre-human race!
30
By EDMOND
HAMILTON
have kinsfolk there, and I was talking to
one of them before we left Belfast. She
gave me this.”
He held out his hand to show the ring he
wore. It was a worn, ancient hoop of gold
set with a curious prismatic crystal.
Cullan stared at it in sudden surprise.
The crystal was glowing. Little flashes of
light, tiny spears of radiance, scintillated
in it. The tiny rays seemed to form a shin-
ing, wheel-shaped sign!
"That’s funny— it didn’t glow like that
Heading by BORIS DOLGOT
31
n
WEIRD TALES
before,” Cullan murmured, puzzledly.
"Maybe electric influence of approaching
storm — ”
He suddenly remembered what his old
kinswoman had told him when she gave him
the ring, back there in her little cottage in
the low green Ulster hills.
"The ring goes always to the oldest male
m our family. And since rny other grand-
nephew was killed in the war, it must be
yours. It comes down in our family from
Cuchulain himself.”
"Cuchulain.^” Cullan had smiled at men-
tion of the great hero of Celtic antiquity.
"You don’t really believe that he was our
ancestor. Aunt Maeve.^”
"And how could I believe otherwise
when the pride of our lineage has been
handed down to us these two thousand
years?” the old lady had retorted. “Isn’t
your name Cullan and wasn’t the great
Cuchulain the Hound of Cullan? Isn’t that
the very ring that he called the Unlocker,
and that Cuchulain brought back with him
from the Shining Land?”
Brian Cullan had grinned. "I’ve flown
the Atlantic a good many times during the
wear, and I never saw any trace of Tir
Sorcha.”
"And how could you see the Shining
Land when it’s invisible to the eyes of
man?” she had demanded stoutly. "Wasn’t
Cuchulain himself almost the only man who
ever entered it, and didn’t even he almost
fail to come back from it to his waiting
wife?”
Cullan had taken the ring. He knew his
great-aunt’s seriousness where the old
legends were concerned.
He too had learned those stories w'hen
he was a child in faraway America — the
great tales of the Ultonian cycle, of the
heroes of the Red Branch and of the dark
warrior among them who had blazed out in
battle as Cuchulain, the Celtic Achilles.
His old kinswoman’s Arm belief m.ade the
tales seem almost real. The unquenchable
romance and mystery in the Celtic soul gave
her firm belief in even that cardinal tenet of
Celtic legend — Tir Sorcha, the Shining
Land, the strange, unseeable elysium that
somehow existed out in the western sea and
was home of the great, pre-human race, the
Tuatha De.
Cullan was abruptly snatched back from
memory by the impact of shrieking w'inds
on the flying plane. Startled, he looked
around.
"We've got to get out of this mess
quick!” Jeff Lewis yelled.
Cullan stared. "I never saw a storm come
up like this!”
The whole sky around them had swiftly
deepened in obscurity, and the dark haze
was boiling up in terrifying thunderheads
C ULLAN tried to swing the plane around.
But howling winds hurled the ship on
like a toy into the lightning-split darkness
The left aileron was suddenly crumpled bv
an inconceivable fist of wind.
"That does it — we’re going downstairs
now for sure!” cried Lewis.
Cullan’s hands fought the controls, trying
to keep the plane out of an instant plunge.
He noticed startledly that the crystal on his
finger was now glowing like a tiny, flaming
sun.
Abruptly came a wrenching shock. The
plane seemed to drop with sickening rapid-
ity as though in a terrific downdraft. Yet
for ail their sudden nausea, the altimeter
registered no change.
Darkness, lightning and howling winds
were suddenly gone! They were surrounded
by mists that glowed with wonderful, golden
radiance, a glowing, unearthly haze.
Cullan, looking out into that golden mist
through which the plane was slanting down-
ward, gasped his incredulous amazement.
"Tir Sorcha! The Shining Land!”
"What do you mean?” Lewis demanded
impatiently. "What — ”
His voice trailed to silence and his broad
red face was a frozen mask of incredulity as
he looked downward through the window.
The golden mists were thinning as tl)c
crippled plane slanted lower. They made-
out beneath the tawny yellow swell of an
ocean far different from the gray-green
Atlantic.
Tliere was an island below them! A big,
whale-shaped green land, miles long,
rimmed by surf-whipped white beaches.
And in the misty distance beyond they
could glimpse other islands, clustered near
and far.
"Tliere’s no islands in the North Atlan-
The shining land
53
tic!” choked Jeff Lewis. "There just isn’t.”
"Atlantic? That’s not the Atlantic!”
flashed Culian. His black eyes flared with
excitement. “It’s not our world at all but
Tir Sor.cha, the Shining Land.”
Stunned bewilderment made his co-pilot’s
voice savage. "Will you stop mouthing silly
superstitions and—”
"I tell you, it’s the Shining Land just as
legend described it!” cried Culian. “Tir
Sorcha, the other world, the world of Lugh
and Dagda and Mannanan and all the others
of the old gods, the Tuatha De.”
His voice raced on with his thoughts. “It
must be an interpenetrating world, Jeff! A
world congruent with Earth, on a different
plane of vibration. The legends always said
that Tir Sorcha was locked close to Earth but
that neither world was visible or tangible to
the other. Yet a few passed from world to
world, and somehow we’ve done it too.”
Lev/is tried to voice disbelief and could
not. The island looming up below was flat
rejection of all his arguments.
Brian Cullan’s mind was thrilling to wild
surmise. He remembered how the crystal
of bis ring had pulsed v.dth blinding radi-
ance.
"The crj'stal did it somehow, Jeff! Cuchu-
lain himself is said to have brought it back
from the Shining Land, . calling it the Un-
locker. Somehow, it tuned our plane and
us to the vibration of the other world — ”
"Forget that and try to get us down v/ith-
out cracking up!” exclaimed the dazed co-
pilot.”
Instincts fostered by long discipline took
over Cuiian’s mind to the exclusion of all
else, as the crippled amphibian sagged to-
ward the running yellov' waves. lie noted
a little boy on the island’s shore.
"It’s calmer there — I’ll try to make the
beach.”
niHE ship struck the water and skimmed
-I- forward like a giant surf-board toward
the white beach of the whale-shaped island.
It rolled up through the yellovv? waters
onto firm sand. Culian cut the motors and
they scrambled out, stood staring wonder-
ingly.
The island was silent except for the dis-
tant boom of surf. The yellow sea, and
the golden mists that hid the sun, and the
strange scents of alien flowers that freighted
the balmy air, held tliem transfixed.
"God, look at that!” exclaimed Lewis
hoarsely, pointing.
Black, monstrous-winged shapes of size
incredi’ole were winging up from a distant
part of the island. They were dragon-iilce
birds of dimensions enormous, huge as the
rocs of Arabian fable.
They flapped away in a direction away
from Culian and Lewis, vast wings shadow-
ing the golden sky, uttering startled, squawk-
ing sounds.
"I know now what place this is,” husked
Culian. "The Island of Great Birds. Mael-
dun touched here when Ae voyaged through
the Shining Land centuries ago, says the
story. And those other islands — ”
Those other isles that rose vaguely
through the distant golden mists were the
isles of the Celtic elysium exactly as legend
described them!
The' Island of Giant Flowers whose
blooms tov/ered higher than tall oaks; the
Island of Silver whose beaches and rocks
glittered as if of solid metal; the Island of
Fire that blazed a red beacon through the-
golden mists; Culian dazedly named them
from legend as he stared.
"Hov/ are we going to get back — to
Earth?” Jeff Lewis demanded, his broad face
still v.'earing a stunned look.
"Others — few — entered this world in
the far past and yet got back,” muttered
Culian. “Cuchulain, and Maeldun, and — ”
"Culian, look what’s coming!” yelled
Lewis, pointing suddenly to their right.
Long, slim boats of burnished metal
were racing toward them at great speed, oar-
less and sailless vessels that came obliquely
across the yellow sea toward the beach on
which they stood.
Culian glimpsed the crews of the high
prowed metal boats as they hit the beach
and tumbled ashore with a fierce, high yell.
They were tall, fair-haired men in silver
mail and helmets, carrying swords that were
like brands of living flame as they charged
toward the airmen.
"Back into the plane!” Lewis was yelling
hoarsely, tugging at his arm. "We can taxi
it out of here — ”
Brian Culian remained frozen for a fatal
minute of delay, transfixed by the appear-
34
WEIRD TALES
ante of those towering silver-armored war-
riors.
'The Tuatha De!” he whispered. “The
great race of the old gods who ruled Earth
once — ”
"Wake up!” yelled Lewis, his face livid.
'They’ve cut us off now!”
The warriors were between them and the
beached amphibian. They were rushing to-
ward the two pilots with obvious murder-
ous intent, brandishing those weird flam-
ing swords and yelling fiercely as they
came.
C ULLAN partly recognized the language
in which they shouted! It was a language
closely akin to the ancient Gaelic of the
Celts, that Gaelic which he had learned
from his race-proud father as a child.
Desperately, Cullan threw up his hand
and shouted to the charging warriors in
Gaelic. "Wait! We are friends, not ene-
mies!”
The warriors stopped, seemingly amazed.
“These men speak me tongue of usTuatha!”
exclaimed one.
"Nevertheless, they are outworlders,”
rang a clear, commanding voice. "They
have broken the law, have somehow opened
the Portal and entered Tir Sorcha. You
know the penalty. Kill!”
"The Princess Fand has spoken — kill!”
roared a captain.
Cullan’ s eyes flashed to the source of the
order. It was a woman, slim in silver armor
and helmet, a sheathed sword at her belt.
Fand! He knew that name! Princess
of Tir Sorcha, wife of Mannanan — fairest
of the Tuatha De, the oldd tales had said.
A white, lovely face, merciless in every
chiseled feature, met his gaze. Sea-green
eyes under straight dark brows flared at
him and then suddenly those eyes widened,
stared wildly at Cullan.
"Wait!” cried Fand. “Do not kill! Oh,
fool — blind fool! It is he!”
They stood on the white beach, incredi-
ble group of dazed two airmen and puz-
zled ominously Tuatha warriors, all looking
at her.
Fand’s green eyes were dark with sudden
wild tears, and her gaze had not left Brian
Cullan’s dark, haggard face. She ran for-
ward, swiftly as a sea-bird.
Her bare; white arms flashed around his
neck. Cullan, incredulous, felt her sobbing
on his chest.
"Cuchulain!” she cried. "Cuchulain!”
II
RIAN CULLAN, his pulses thudding,
found his arms around her. Dazed as
he was, a wild thrill shot through him. Be-
neath the flexible tunic of silver chain-mail,
her body was pliant and yielding. Stray
strands of dark, perfumed hair bmshed his
face.
No elfin queen of faery legend this —
but a girl, a woman, warm and living.
Blood hammered in his temples as she
turned her eager eyes up to him.
“I — I am not Cuchulain,” he said starn-
meringly, in the Gaelic. "Cuchulain died
two thousand years ago.”
Fand’s white face was stricken by a swift,
terrible hopelessness as she scanned his face.
"Two thousand years?” she whispered.
"Of course — I forgot, for the moment when
I first saw you, that time is different on
Earth.”
Cullan felt a shock of discovery. This was
the explanation, then, of the Shining Land.
— an interpenetrating world whose time
even was at a different pace than Earth’s?
If that were so, it explained why every-
thing here in Tir Sorcha was still exactly as
described by the few men of Earth who
centuries ago had claimed to have visited
here. Centuries had passed on Earth, but
it had been a vastly shorter period in the
time of this world.
Fand had stepped back a little, but her
wide green eyes still searched his face. "But
you are Cuchulain, in every feature!” she
gasped. “And you wear the crystal that I
gave him when he left here six of our
years ago — the Unlocker that would enable
him to return through the Portal. Where
got you that?”
Cullan looked at the ring upon his finger.
"It came down in my family for a hundred
generations. It was supposed to come from
our remote ancestor — ^Cuchulain.”
“Then you are of his blood?” cried Fand.
"I should have known it. For you are the
mold of him as he was.”
They were interrupted. The tail Tuatha
THE SHINING LAND
35
captain had stepped forward, and now spoke
with impatient fierceness.
"ShalLwe not kill them now. Princess?”
he asked.
Little storm lightnings flared in Fand’s
sea-green eyes as she turned on the man.
"No! These two do not die.”
The Tuatha warriors looked shocked.
"But the Law says that none of Earth may
enter this world and live. And w'hen the
Portal opened so strangely but now, did you
not summon us to follow you and slay who-
ever might have entered it from the out-
world?”
■'Will you argue my order?” flamed Fand.
"I command the Portal, do I not?”
"Under Lugh and the other lords, you
do,” gnunbled the captain. "But if Man-
naaan hears of this — ”
She silenced them with an imperious ges-
ture of her hand. "No more! We take
them to Ethne with us.”
She motioned toward the metal boats.
Lewis, interpreting her gesture, looked anx-
iously at Cullan. "We can’t leave the
plane!”
Fand understood his objection when
Cullan translated. "You wish to take that
clumsy craft of yours along? Well, then
you can follow our boats.”
She gave brief orders to her Tuatha war-
riors. They followed her bade toward the
slim metal craft, v/hile Cullan and Lev.^is re-
entered the amphibian.
The metal boats skimmed rapidly a\vay
across the yellow sea. Cullan started the
motors and kept their plane taxiing over
the smooth swells after them. But the
plane could hardly keep up to the slim,
speeding craft ahead.
He saw no sign of propulsion machinery
in the boats except a square box at the stern
of each, and a continuous flash of white
fire or force that jetted back underv/ater.
Startled, he realized that that and the queer
force-flaming swords he had seen indicated
a mastery of energies unknown to Earth
science.
Jefl Lewis was pouring a torrent of ques-
tions on him. "Who is she? Why did she
seem to'knov/ you? Cullan, what in the
devil’s name does it all mean?”
Cullan strove to order his own seething
thoughts. "We’ve come into an interpene-
trating world that men have entered before,
though long ago. Cuchulain, my ancestor,
was one of them. He was here— two thou-
sand years ago by our time, six years ago by
the time of this world!
"For time runs far more siov/ly in this
world. A day here is a year in our own
Earth. As to the girl, she is Fand, wife of
Mannanan, one of the lords of the Tuatha
De. She knew Cudiulain when he was
here, it seems, and gave him this crystal
so he could return. And I must look like
him, for she thought for a moment that I
was he.”
Jeff Lewis whistled, "^le must have
known your ancestor pretty well, judging
from the reception she gave you.”
T EIE co-pilot reasoned feverishly. "We’ve
got to get back to our ov/n world, and
maybe she can help. If she could fix it for
your ancestor Cuchulain to come and go, she
can do it for us. Maybe that crystal would
work both ways?”
Cullan did not answer. He didn’t want
to think of returning to Earth, in this mo-
ment. Elis blood was tingling with a heady
excitement as they raced on over the yellow
sea beneatli the golden mists, past the dim
green islands.
'This was the Elysium of his race, found
real and tangible by a freak of fate. Straight
out of war-worn old Earth he had been
plunged into the wmnder and loveliness of
Tir S^orcha, the Shining Land. He almost
felt that he had been here before, as he
drank in the haunting beauty of the W'eird
land. But that, he knew, must be because
legend had made him familiar wdth it for
so long.
A bigger island was taking shape in the
mists ahead. They could see it only dimly
at first, for the sun was invisible above the
radiant haze. Then they cried out in aston-
ishment as they saw more clearly the island
of Ethne, their goal.
The isle was not really large, a green
hillock in the sea with a deep bay in its
nearer coast. Around this bay clustered the
shimmering structures of a city. But great-
est wonder of Ethne was the gigantic geyser
of water that sprang into the air from some
pit or blovz-’hoie on its farther shore.
That colossal waterspout sprang obliquely
36
WEIRD TALES
across the whole island^ like the solid jet of
a stupendous hose — a glittering, solid rain-
bow of w ater that ardied across the isle and
fell intf the sea just outside the harbor of
the city.
"The Island of the Waterspout!” Cullan
whispered raptly. “Maeldun was here, long
ago — and Cuchuiain — ”
The boats ahead was racing straight to-
ward the harbor. The plane taxiing after
them, breasted big waves that came from the
point where the gigantic jet fell into the sea.
Like a Niagara falling from high heaven
was that incredible jet! The thunder of it
was deafening as they struggled past it, and
the spray it flung high into the golden mist
painted the air around it with dazzling,
changing rainbows.
Then they were past it, following the
boats into the harbor. Before them lay
ancient docks of yellow stone, fringed with
a row of large and small metal craft. Be-
yond rose the city Ethne.
The golden mists were darkening, as
though the sun above the haze v/as now
setting. In the darkening mist, Ethne stood
out like the faery city that legend had
made it.
Brian Cullan’s eyes climbed its structures
— shimmering spherical buildings massed
like congeries of iridescent soap-bubbles.
City unreal as a dream and as beautiful —
elfin city built beneath the titar arch of that
eternal rainbow of water across the sky!
Fand’s warriors pulled the amphibian up
onto a worn stone ramp. The Tuathan
princess met them when they emerged from
the plane.
"You go with me to my palacn,” she said.
And then, noting Jeff Lewis’ dazed face,
"And fear nothing.”
Ethne’s streets were darkening, and
lights were shining inside the semi-trans-
lucent spheres of the soap-bubble buildings.
Tall Tuatha lords and ladies in silk and
silver stared incredulously at Cullan and
Lewis as they climbed the winding yellow'
streets behind Fand’s guards.
Perfimie freighted, tlie air from gorgeous
garaens that laced the city. There were
many slaves or servants here, a race other
than the Tuatha De, dark-faced and stocky.
Fand’s palace loomed before them’ against
the darkening haze, a piled, fragile-seeming
mass of solid bubbles standing on the high-
est ground of the city amid the foliage cf
gardens. They followed her into a v/onder-
ful, pure-white hall that Avas like the interior
of a pearl.
Fand stopped suddenly. Facing them was
a Tuatha lord, a tall, fair, handsome young
man. His gray eyes slitted as he stared at
them.
"Then the warrior who came ahead of
you to me told truth, Fand,” he rasped.
"You spared two outworlders who
came into Tir Sorcha.”
Tie uttered an oath as his eyes lit on
Cullen’s face. "Now' I understand! That
outworld dog Cuchuiain whom you loved
— come back again!”
His hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Fand’s voice lashed like a whip of silver.
"You forget, Mannanan, that two thou-
sand outer years have passed since Cuchu-
iain went from here.”
Her husband glared. "Tlrat is true. But
why then did you spare this one who so
closely resembles Cuchuiain? They must
be slain at once.”
"7 am keeper of the Portal, not you!” she
flared. "The outworlders do not die.”
"The Lav / — /’ began Mannanan.
"Do you cite the Law to me?” retorted
Fand scornfully. "You who these many
years have desired to break it, who have
wished me to open the Portal to the out-
world for your own evil schemes?”
Mannanan hissed, "If I tell Lugh and the
other lords of your transgression, you’ll not
long be keeper of the Portal.”
"Tell them,” Fand answered serenely,
"and I’ll tell them of the plans you’ve
long hatched to invade the outworld.”
Ill
M ANNANAN’ S handsome face became
deadly. He turned on his heel, strode
out of the pearl-hall followed by a fevt'
Tuatha captains.
Cullan looked after him rvorriedly. "If
our coming has made trouble betv/een you
and your husband — ”
Fand laughed mirthlessly. "Mannanan
has been m.y husband in but name, since
Cuchuiain came here six years — ^two thou-
sand years! — ^ago.”
THE SHINING LAND
37
Het vibrant green eyes softened on his
face. "Go now and rest, and fear noth-
ing from Mannanan. Soon I will talk fur-
ther with you.”
Dark-faced servants escorted Culian and
Lewis up a coiling, narrow stair that
climbed from the rear of the pearl-hall to
the upper levels of the bubble palace. They,
were taken into an azure chamber that
seemed hollowed out of sapphire.
Windovv^s in the curving, translucent blue
wall gave outlook on the darkening gardens
below the palace, on the bubble-domes of
Ethne and the harbor. The golden mists
had changed to silver, the hazy sunlight now
replaced by the light of hidden moons
above the mist. The stupendous arc of the
waterspouts was like a silver sword across
the sky.
"I think there’s something to drink in
this thing, and I hope to God it's strong,”
muttered Levds, picking up a silver flagon.
He poured and tasted a yellow liquid. "It
is — and I need it!”
Then he came over and grasped Cullan’s
arm. "Culian, stop staring out that window
and come to life! What are we going to
do!”
Brian Culian turned reluctantly from his
rapt, bemused contemplation of the other-
worldly scene. "Do about what?”
"About getting out of this world and
back to Earth!” Lewis exclaimed. '"'iS^hat
were Fand and her hard-eyed boyfriend
arguing about?”
Culian related the conversation. And
Jeff Lewis’ broad face grew worried.
"Then there’s danger here, not only for
us, but for Earth. If Mannanan and his
crowd are planning to go through into our
world — ”
He paced restlessly to and fro. "These
people have powers. Those boats and shining
swords imply control of atomic energy. The
very fact that they can open a Portal be-
tween two interpenetrating worlds argues
great science and power.”
His face hardened. "We’ve just spent
years of toil and blood to whip Earth back
into decent shape. And if there’s an inva-
sion now from outside — ”
Culian spoke slowly. "Even if Mannanan
and his followers represent a menace, they
can’t enter Earth v/hile Fand guards the
Portal. It was apparenhthat she has long
refused to open it for him.”
"But she could open it for us,” Lewis
said eagerly. "We could get back, then."
He continued urgently. "You can get her
to do it, Culian. I saw the way she looked
at you. Earth or Tir Sorcha — a woman’s
still a woman.”
Brian Cullen was troubled. "I’m not so
sure that I’d want to leave here and go back
to Earth.”
"Not to carry a warning of possible dan-
ger?” Lewis prodded. "Not even for that?”
Culian felt a chill. Lewis was right. The
danger to Earth might be vague, potential
— but it was real.
A servant interrupted his thoughts. "You
are to dine with the Princess,” he told
Culian deferentially. "I will conduct you.”
"Culian, now’s your chance!” Lewis said
when he understood the invitation. "Induce
her by any means to let us go back!”
Culian nodded silently. But as he fol-
lowed the servant down the curving corri-
dors and the coiling stair of the softly lit
palace, he felt a strong inner unwillingness.
L eave this? Leave the wonder and
beauty of Tir Sorcha to go back to war-
exhausted Earth? Leave — ^Fand?
"None of that,” he told himself roughly.
"You’re nothing to her — just someone who
reminds her of Cuchulain. And she’s not
quite human — ”
Not human? When he stepped out onto
the silver-lit terrace where Fand awaited
him, he had to concede that in her long,
star-embroidered white gown, her elfin
beauty was more than human.
"We shall dine here,” she said. "I wish
to talk more wfith you of Cuchulain.”
He looked around. She interpreted his
glance. "Mannanan is not here. He sulks
with his captains in his own palace.”
Black and silver dreamed the gardens be-
low them, in the diffused mists of moon-
lights. Lights softly starred the bubble
domes of Ethne, and gliding lights crossed
the harbor.
From the great scimitar of the water-
spout, shining across the slq^ overhead, came
a steady whispering that could be heard
even above the low, distant thunder v/here
the cataract plunged into the sea.
3S
WEIRD TALES
Land, slim fingers around a wine-glass,
looked out over the supernally beautiful
scene. "Your ancestor Cuchulain sat here
thus with me the night before he left Tir
Sorcha, only six years ago.”
"Why did he ever go?” Cullan could not
help wondering aloud.
"He said that loyalty to his king, Conor
mac Nessa, demanded that he return to
Earth until the wars of his people were won.
Then, he said, he would come back to Tir
Sorcha and to me. But he did not come
back.”
"He was killed fighting the foes of his
king,” Cullan told her. "He died, terrible
in battle, tying himself upright to a tall
stone so that he could strike still one more
blow as he died.”
Fand’s green eyes flashed. “Aye, that
would be the way that Cuchulain would
die!”
She asked, a moment later, "What of the
wife he told me of, the Earth girl Emer
who had been mother of his son?”
"Legend has it that Cuchulain never loved
Emer in the same way after his return from
Tir Sorcha,” admitted Cullan.
"It would be so,” Fand said broodingly.
"He would remember me, as I remembered
him and kept hoping for his return even
though hope died when I realized the cen-
turies that had passed in your other world.
"Nor could I go into Earth after him,”
she continued somberly. "Long ago, my peo-
ple the Tuatha Ete first went from our world
into yours through the Portal my ancestors
had learned to open. They first peopled
your Earth! But their subjects there in time
revolted against their wise rulers and so — it
seems but a few score years to us! — Lugh,
greatest of the Tuatha, and Dagda, and the
other great ones came back into Tir Sorcha
and decreed that no one should ever pass
through the Portal again.
"Yet Cuchulain and a few others of Earth
took advantage of chance openings of the
Portal to come into this world. Cuchulain
won my love, and Mannanan’s hate, and
then left promising to return. And when he
did not return, I could not transgress my
duty as keeper of the Portal to go after him.
I could only wait and hope that somehow
he would return. And now he has returned!”
Cullan was startled. He stood up, and
Fand too had risen and was swaying toward
him. Her eyes burned him, her face breath-
less.
He was only human. He found his arms
around her, his lips against the intoxicating
perfume of her mouth. Then he stumbled
back.
"Not me,” he said thickly. "Not me you
love, but Cuchulain that’s dead two thou-
sand years.”
Fand’s small white hands clutched his
shoulders almost fiercely. "You are Cuchu-
lain! Time has worked its cycle in the out-
world, and you are the Hound reborn again,
and come back again to me.”
Crazy, impossible delusion of a brooding
woman? Be it what it might, the fierce
kisses of Fand were sweet!
"Tell me, have you an Emer waiting for
you in the outv/orld?” she whispered, white
arms still around his neck.
Cullan thought of the girl in America
who had given him a half -promise, but she
was faraway and unreal now as a dream.
"I’ll not be loved for my chance resem-
blance to a long-dead man!” he said vio-
lently. "I’m not Cuchulain, I’m Brian Cul-
lan, and — ”
A servant came plunging out onto the ter-
race and Fand turned angrily at the inter-
ruption.
The man’s swarthy face was livid. He
cried, "Mannanan and his captains attack — ”
Death-shriek rang eerily from inside the
dreaming bubble-palace at the same mo-
ment. Wolf -fierce yells of shouting men and
the rushing of feet and clashing of swords
exploded in the silver silence.
Fand whirled, her face a white flame of
wrath. "He dares! For years, Mannanan
and his plotters have coveted the Portal to
the outv/orld, and now he dares attack
openly — ”
She grasped Cullan’s wrist. "This way,
and quickly! They must not reach the cham-
ber of the Portal!”
The whole palace, all of Ethne, was now
a hideous clamor as Mannanan’s armored
soldiers poured through the silver-lit gar-
dens in swift onrush.
Cullan raced with the Tuathan princess,
aroimd the base of the palace and into it by
another door. They entered the back of the
shining pearl-hall.
THE SHIMNG LAND
S9
Callan glimpsed Mannanan and his men
pouring in against Land’s guards. Swords
were Sashing — swords that flamed with
charges of destroying force. The merest
touch of those swords sent men falling in
dead, blasted heaps!
"Retreat up the stair!” Land’s voice cried
to her guards like a silver trumpet. "Guard
the chamber of the Portal!’’
There was a mad, scrambling confusion
across the cool loveliness of the shining hall,
as the outnumbered soldiers of Land gave
back toward the stair.
Cullan reached and snatched up a sword
from a dead man’s hand. ’The weapon was
light as a rapier, its blade shining with that
deadly force.
"Kill that outworlder!” roared Manna-
nan’s voice through the fight. "Seize Land!”
A sword struck like a lightning-bolt to-
ward Cullan as he swung Land behind him
to the stair.
C ULLAN parried and struck with the
half-forgotten skill of fencing taught
him at his university five years before. His
blade slithered past the opposing rapier and
touched his Tuathan enemy’s arm.
The man dropped without a groan, his
whole side blasted and withered by the de-
stroying touch of tlie charged sword.
"Up the stair!” Land cried. "Mannanan
has suborned my soldiers — we have only
this palace guard.”
There began a crazy retreat up the coil-
ing stairway, past level after level of the
palace. Land’s few guards were holding
the steps stubbornly, barring the narrocv,
way to Mannanan’s hordes.
"The Tuatha possess other and more
powerful weapons than these swords, but
Mannanan dares not use them lest he destroy
the palace and the Portal with it,” Land was
crying to Cullan. "If w'e can hold them — ”
Jeff Lewis’ wild face thrust between them.
"Cullan, what is it? "What’s happening?”
"Mannanan and his bunch are trying to
seize the controls of the Portal, whatever it
is,” Cullan rasped.
"My God!” exclaimed Lewis. "If that
happens — ”
Cullan heard no more, for one of Land’s
soldiers had fallen directly below him on
the stair. He leaped in to fill the gap.
Deadly, shining blades clicked and clashed
on each other all across the stair. Men
touched by them fell as though struck by
lightning. Cullan felt old fencing skill com-
ing back to him in the desperate fight.
But they v.'ere being forced back upvzard
despite the blasted corpses with which tire)’
had strewed the steps. Up past level above
level of the palace, until behind and above
the defenders lay the end of the stair.
The stair opened up onto the roof of tire
topmost bubble-dome of the palace! Sunken
in that roof was a round recess open to the
misty moonlight, a windy, lofty enclosure
containing a great mechanism which flashed
and glittered.
The thing was a giant crystal similar in
shape to the tiny crystal in Cullan’s ring. But
this one was huge, mounted in massive
framework and gimbals of gold, and sur-
rounded by an intricate pattern of similarly
mounted smaller crystals.
Land cried wildly to Cullan, as Manna-
nan’s triumph-shouting hordes pressed them
back at the narrow entrance of this chamber
of the Portal.
"The Portal is lost unless I call for heln!
But the only ones whom I can call to aid
will deal death to yosij”
"Do anything, to save the Portal from
that devil!” husked Brian Cullan.
Mannanan yelled fiercely from back in '
the press of the attackers. "Slay that out-
v/orlder, quickly!”
Cullan stabbed and struck. The light,
deadly sword was almost exactly like the
rapiers he had once used in fencing. And
the supernal necessity of holding the at-
tackers nerved him.
He parried thrusts of blades whose touch
v/as destruction, and loosed destruction him-
self by the sw/ift flash and dip and .stab of
his shining weapon. Blasted bodies now
choked the narrow doorway.
Yet another of Land’s guards went down,
and now only three of them were left to
fight beside him, v.dth Lev/is standing ready
behind him to replace the next who fell. He
caught a glimpse of Land, standing by the
edge of the great crystal machine with her
white arms raised toward the night, her
face strange and masklike in the silver iigh::.
Another of the men beside Cullan 'went
down. Triumphant roar of voices broke
40
WEIRD TALES
from the attackers as they surged forward
for a last onrush. They would break through,
this time —
Something clicked in Brian Cullan’s brain.
Something made the sword in his hand sud-
denly flash with a swiftness and skill of
which he had irever been capable.
And as though from remote distances he
heard his own voice roaring battle-challenge
to the attackers before him. That terrible
battle-cry rose raving above the din of the
fight.
"Who comes against me?” Cullan heard
his own voice roaring. “Who comes to kill
the Hound of Cullan, the champion of the
Red Branch, the slayer of Ferdia and the
Calatin Clan? Who comes against Cuchu-
lain?"
For he was Cuchulain now, as he fought.
Except for one corner of his brain that
watched wonderingly, he was another man
— man berserk with battle, a man who
took fierce delight in slaying.
"I am Cuchulain the Hound and I’ve
killed Tuatha before! Come meet me, Man-
nanan!”
N ever later would Cullan be able to
decide whether ancestral personality
had come out of the dim chambers of mem-
ory to dominate his body, or whether it was
merely knowledge of the old legends that
obsessed his mind in this supreme moment.
Red battle-madness v/as rocking his brain
and he never could remember more than a
glittering net of swords weaving death
around him but not quite touching him, as
he held Mannanan’s warriors back. And
then, suddenly, the warriors before him re-
coiled, staring wildly past him.
“The sign!” yelled a hoarse voice among
his attackers. "The sign of Lugh!”
The crimson mists cleared somehow from
Cullan’s brain. He glanced and saw that
around and above the whole palace a wheel
of silent lightnings were playing. A wheel
of fire, sign of Lugh, greatest of the Tuatha
De.
The wheel narrov/ed, and bolts darted
from it toward the roofless chamber of the
Portal. And in that blaze of silent light-
ning suddenly stood men, tall, grave, un-
humanly calm.
Men? No men could have appeared thus
magically. Cullan’s twentieth-century knowl-
edge told him that he was seeing merely
images projected from a distance in answer
to Fand’s telepathic call for help.
But dread images, these! Lugh, tall,
grave, solemn, his somber, wrinkled face
and his form wreathed with silent little
lightnings, and giant, terrible-eyed Dagda,
and a half-dozen others — ^gods of the old
Celts, lords of the Tuatha De, the science-
kings of two worlds once.
Lugh— or the projected image of Lugh
— spoke in deep voice to the frozen attack-
ers. "What evil is it ye do here, following
Mannanan in lust for conquest of the out-
world? Know ye not that such has been for-
bidden since I ordered closed the way be-
tween the worlds?”
Lightnings from the flaming wheel around .
the palace flashed threateningly toward the
warrior hordes in the palace and gardens.
"Flee — Lugh’s vengeance strikes!” went
up the mad cry, and Mannanan’s warriors
turned frantically in flight.
But Mannanan darted forward, handsome
face blind-mad with hate, his shining sword
stabbing at Brian Cullan.
"At least you will perish, outworlder!”
Cullan turned — too late to parry that
deadly blade. But a sword stabbed past him
and ripped into Mannanan’s throat. The
Tuathan lord fell, face blackening and
blasted.
Cullan whirled. Fand, shuddering,
dropped the sword. "He would have slain
you, Cuchulain!” she choked.
"Too much of slaying has there been be-
cause of these outworlders whom your faith-
lessness let enter Tir Sorcha!” rang Lugh’s
stern voice to her. "'The men must die, be-
fore they cause more evil.”
Fand swung herself in front of Cullan.
"No!” she cried. "If you kill them, you
must kill me also! Or I will shatter the
Portal you gave me to guard, and open the
way once more!”
A stir went through the Tuathan lords.
Astonishment and anger rang in Lugh’s
voice. "Are you mad, Fand? The men are
outworlders and they cannot stay here.”
“Then let them go back through the Por-
tal to their own world!” she pleaded des-
perately.
THE SHINING LAND
Lugh frowned. "It is not well for the
outworld ,to learn of Tir Sorcha from them.”
"They would not be believed if they
told,” she insisted. "Two thousands out-
world years have passed since we Tuatha De
left Earth, and ail is but myth and legend
now.”
Lugh finally made a sign of assent. "So
be it, then. But they must go at once, Fand.
Open the Portal and send them forth.”
Fand turned. Wide, brilliant green eyes
looked up into Cullan's face as for a mo-
ment she clmig to him.
“Cuchulain — ^twice found, twice lost,”
she whispered. "You must go. It is that, or
death.”
"I’ll come back,” he said hoarsely. "Some-
day, somehow. I’ll find a way back in spite
of all their Laws.”
"Let the outworlders go, Fand,” rolled
Lugh’s command, stern and urgent.
She thrust Cullan from her, with shaking
hands. "Go quickly to your flying boat.
When the Portal opens, the crystal on your
finger will take you through.”
She turned and blindly touched a control-
stud by the side of the great machine. The
giant crystal began slowly to turn in its
gimbals, and the smaller stones around it
turned also, faster and faster.
It was Lewis whoui^.i the dazed, ago-
nized Cullan down tire death-littered stair of
the palace, by main force.
"We’ve got to get to the plane quickly!
Our only chance to get back!”
Palace and streets of Etline were deserted
as death, as the people cowered in fear
4i
from the flaming sign of Lugh over the
palace.
The amphibian was still drawn up at the
edge of the stone ramp. As they scrambled
inside it, the ring upon Cullan’s finger had
begun once more to glow like a tiny, spin-
ning sun.
Abruptly, everything dissolved in swirl-
ing mist. 'Ihey felt a shattering shock. 'Tlien
the plane rocked w'iidly, battered by big
waves.
Sunlight — normal yellow afternoon sun-
light streamed upon them through the cabin
windows. The amphibian was floating in
the gray-green Atlantic beneath blue sky.
They had come back through the Portal to
Earth.
Cullan looked about them, dazedly. "Tit
Sorcha — and Fand — ^here a moment ago!
Here, right beside us!”
Shining Land, lost elysium, moon-misted
Etline and princess of the old gods, gone,
gone —
"Months must have passed in the half-
day we were in there!” Lewis was exclaim-
ing excitedly. "We’ll have to tell people
that we’ve been floating all that time. 'They’d
never believe the truth.”
His eyes gripped Cullan’s. "IFas it true,
Cullan? I’m beginning to doubt already
that it was only a dream!”
Cullan looked down at the crystal on his -
finger, Fand’s gift to Cuchulain of old and
to him. Tears blurred his eyes.
"It was no dream. Someday, even if it
means death. I’m going to find my way
back to her.”
egend of 228
By HAROLD LAV/LOR
T here was someone living on the
fourth floor of the frame dwell-
ing place at 228 South Railroad
Avenue. The first three floors were vacant.
and so, presumably, was the fourth. But
there was someone, or something —
The Valley, whispering, thought it was
something. Sometliing not human.
Heading by A. R. TILBURNE
You keep thinking there’s someone, something, up there under the roof
listening, making plans
42
THE LEGEND OF 228
43
For quite a while now the gaunt gray
structure iri its scabrous paint had been a
place to be avoided. Lights were to be seen
flickering from its upper story, and strange
guttural mutterings were said to issue from
it. But no one investigated. The Valley be-
lieved in letting well enough— or ill enough
— alone.
You probably don’t know the "Valley” —
even if you live here. It isn’t really a valley
at all. Roughly oae-lialf mile in length, it’s
a two-block-wide depression between ele-
vated railroad embanlonents at either side.
Hence the name. Ironically.
Its inhabitants- — ^middle-Europeans for the
most part, originally — ^have so kept to them-
selves and inter-married as to be almost a
race apart. The Qty itself pays no attention
to the Valley at its heart, isolated as it is by
the embankments at either side, by railroad
yards to the north, and Lake Wasco to the
south, foul with the outpourings of the fac-
tories lining its shore.
Perhaps the City has forgotten it.
Vida Bede hated the Valley from the first,
and everybody in it. And her hatred was
cordially returned. She was that cooch dancer
from a traveling street carnival whom Sam
Beck had married. Or perhaps Vida had
married him. They wouldn’t put it past her.
Married him for his pink shirts w'hich were
silk, and for the huge diamond that glit-
tered on the little finger of his hairy left
hand.
He was a good man, Sam Beck. Thrifty,
and prosperous for the district. He ran the
local grocery store and did some banking
on the side. The Valley trusted him. But
that wife of his! With her rope-colored
hair, and her bad eyes, and her sultry m.outh,
like a wine-red wound in her white face.
That Vida!
The women made tongue - and - teeth
sounds. And muttered among themselves.
'The men said nothing. They only stared,
wet-lipped.
T WAS from Sam that Vida first heard
the story of the dog and the terrible
tenant in 228.
He was sitting at the kitchen table in his
undershirt, sucking up coffee noisily from
die thick v/hite cup.
"They was on the other side of the street,
these kids,” he said, "when they seen the
dog go in.”
Vida slammed the coffee pot down on
the greasy stove, wiped her hands down the
front of her housecoat, and sank listlessly
into the chair opposite Sam. Look at him
there. Dribbling and spitting in his excite-
ment. Agh! He made her sick.
She hated him — this greasy, stingy little
man she had married. And she thought: If
she could only get her hands on his money!
It wasn’t the first time this thought had
occurred to her. But she had to be careful.
She had to take it slow. She wouldn’t want
Sam or the cops coming after her.
"Pretty soon,” Sam was spitting, "these
kids, they hear this dog snarlin’ and growlin’
like he’s fightin’ wit’ somep’n. Then he give
a kind of yelp, they says — real high, like
screamin’.”
Vida stirred restlessly. Sometimes she felt
it would be better if she just got Sam out
of the way altogether, first. If she could
do it safely. If she could only meet some
guy, not too bright, w'ho’d do it for her.
"Somp’n comes flyin’ out the fourt’ floor
winda, then — all cut and mashed up. All
horrible.” Sam, shuddering, paused dra-
matically. He whispered, "h the dogl”
W ELL, what did he want her to do, faint?
He had too-eager eyes, Sam. Made you
want to kick him like you would a cur. De-
liberately, to spoil his pleasure, Vida took, a
long, slow sip of coffee. She raised an eye-
brow, lazily.
"So what?” she said.
Sam looked crestfallen, but he explained
patiently, "Is someone Ihht’ on the fourt’
floor there. Or some Thing. Something — ■
awful!” He stared at her, round-eyed.
Vida sniffed. "Well, why don’t somebody
go over there, then, and find out who it is?
Or what?”
"Is all scared,” Sam defended. "All the
people in the Valley, they no go near the
place. They afraid.”
"Dumb slobs,” Vida sneered. Her favor-
ite epitliet for the Valley dwellers. It was
like them to be scared about nothing. Catch
her believing such a dopey yarn.
But she remembered the story. And the
fear that kept the Valleyites away from 228.
It came in handy, later on.
44
WEIRD TALES
r HERE was nothing to do, daytimes, in
this lousy place. You could walk up
Railroad ’Avenue and back again. That was
all. A hell of a thrill, that was. It served
one purpose, though. It annoyed Sam.
"Why you all the time walk up and down,
up and down?” he asked plaintively.
Vida stared at his thick lips. "You don’t
like it, you know what you can do.”
And though he wasn’t there to see, she
always went by the cigar store in low gear.
She liked skin-tight, knee-high dresses. And
no stodcings on her shapely legs. She enjoyed
the little stir she created among the male
loungers there. They could look, but she
made it plain they aroused no interest in
return. It pleased her to let her own glance
trail indifferently over them, then flick away.
Until the afternoon that Joe Ross was
-there among them.
That wasn’t his real name, of course. His
own name was so full of c’s and z’s and v’s
that the Valley had been forced in self-
defense to shorten it to Ross. He was a no-
good, a low-life, a bum. Handsome, though.
You had to say that for him. There was
something about the insolent stare of his
fig-colored eyes that made the girls of the
Valley tuck in stray wisps of hair self-con-
sciously when they saw him, and giggle more
than usual.
He’s been away.
"Where ya been, Joe?” the boys asked.
"Oh, around.” Tie gestured vaguely. "Just
bummin’ around.”
Thrown out of the Army, maybe. If, in-
deed, he’d ever got in. And now he was
back. Now you could see him on the street,
talking listlessly to some agitated seventeen-
year-old girl. Elena Ostrowski, perhaps. Un-
til an angry female voice would call. "Elena,
you come here, lilce I say! I tell your Pa on
you, you be sorry, I betcha!” Humiliated
tears in Elena’s eyes, then. And Joe —
Sometimes he’d make a rude sound with
his lips in the direction of the worried
maternal voice. But mostly he just smiled.
His eyes didn’t smile, though. His eyes were
never amused, or even interested.
Tliey say the only time his eyelids lifted
above half-mast was the first time he saw
Vida Beck.
'Their glances caught and held. It was
almost as if they exchanged a silent message.
She faltered in her insolent step. His band
v/ith the cigarette halted halfway to his lips.
The other men there stirred uneasily, vaguely
sensing drama. It was like a show, kind of.
You kept watching to see what would hap-
pen next.
Then Vida’s eyelids dropped, and she
went on. Joe squashed his cigarette under
his shoe, and followed her without a word.
That was the way it began.
S HE couldn’t let him come to the fiat over
the grocery store, for Sam would be sure
to see him . But she remembered tire lonely
house at 228 South Railroad Avenue. She
could meet Joe there, afternoons.
He didn’t like the suggestion much, when
.she first made it. "There?” he protested half-
heartedly. "But lis’en — ”
So he’d he.ard the story already?
She leaned against him. "Don’t tell me
you’re like the rest of the dumb dopes around
here. Believing that crazy stuff — ”
But she was not displeased at his unwill-
ingness. It seemed to prove diat he was just
as she had sized him up at first glance.
Handsome and vain and stupid. He would
be ideal for her purpose. Just give her a
little time.
He was crazy about her from the begin-
ning, but he never grew used to the gaunt
old house. There were times v/hen he’d take
his mouth from hers, and raise his head,
and listen. But there was never anything to
be heard but silence — a sinister silence, it
seemed, as if the house had paused just then
to listen too.
"It gets you, kind of,” Joe whispered
once. "I keep thinking there’s someone, or
something, up there under the roof. Listen-
ing to us. Making plans, maybe. To use
later on. To catch us when we’re not care-
ful.”
Vida didn’t like it when he talked like
that. His husicy hesitant voice, his flickering
light eyes — Honest, it was enough to give
you the meemies, she thought irritably. But
she was careful not to let him see she
minded.
They used to meet in the living room
of the first floor flat. Someone had left a
few pieces of furniture not worth moving
away — a rickety cliair or two, a table. They
always used the back entrance, coming sep-
THE LEGEND OF 228
arately so that no one might see them to-
gether. Once there, they were almost certain
to be free from interruption. For who would
ever come?
But one day someone did.
I T WAS Joe who first heard the footsteps.
He was off the daybed like a cat. Going
to the scarred oak door giving on tire hail,
he opened it the merest crack.
Vida saw his face change. He stood there
quite a while, motionless, until at last un-
bearable curiosity drove her to join him.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
“The Prohaska kid. He went upstairs.”
“We better keep quiet and watch until he
leaves,” Vida said. "If he sees us here, he’ll
spread it all over the neighborhood.”
She remembered Sam had said it was
Johnny Prohaska’s dog that had been thrown
that day from the fourth floor window. She
supposed the kid had been crazy about the
mutt.
And now he had forgotten his fear of
the house enough to come back — perhaps
with some idea of revenge.
She and Joe could hear nothing, but they
waited fifteen minutes or so. Vida wanted
to go up and investigate then, but Joe said,
"The punk probably went out the back way.
Maybe he’s out in front by now.”
They closed the door finally, and Vida
went to the window and drew back the tat-
tered shade far enough to see out. Johnny
was nowhere in sight, but there was a little
knot of women aa'oss the street, clustered
about someone that Vida couldn’t see. Their
voices were low, but from their violent ges-
tures it could almost be guessed that they
were attempting to dissuade someone from
rash action of some sort.
Joe came to stand behind Vida. He was
tall enough to look over her head. “Who is
■it?”
“Sh!” Vida said.
The knot of women untied, and they saw
Johnny Prohaska’s mother at its center.
“He go in there to see what hurt his dog.
He ain’t come out.” Mrs. Prohaska looked
threateningly about. “I go to get him. Ain’t
nobody can stop me.”
They all grabbed at her, but she broke
free and ran straight for the door of 228.
No one followed. No one seemed to dare.
45
They just stood there and watdred, open-
mouthed.
Vida held a finger to her lips as Mrs,
Prohaska pounded through the hall, but Joe
didn’t need the \varning. They continued to
keep an eye on the women outside, but tliey
listened to the sound of Mrs. Prohaska’s feet
mounting the stairs. They waited for what
would happen next.
There were no screams by way of prelude.
But suddenly they heard the heavy fall of
Mrs. Prohaska’s footsteps racing dotm the
uncarpeted wooden stairs of 228. They
heard her stumble through the hall, then
saw her burst from the door, her hair
streaming witchlike behind her, her face
working madly. '
“Oh, oh, oh!” They could hear her sob-
bing softly, like the cooing of pigeons from
a distant cote. “Oh, oh, oh!”
"What’s eating her, anyway?” Joe forgot
to whisper.
Vida didn’t answer. Puzzled, she watched
the wildly gesticulating Mrs. Prohaska. The
woman was running about the street now in
crazy circles, like a bug tormented by a
lighted match held near.
"She’s gone crazy,” Joe said. "Whatever
she saw — ”
Two of her friends finally broke free
from the paralysis of fear that seemed to
hold them, and caught Mrs, Prohaska. She
appeared to be sightless. And her lips were
uttering only a meaningless gabble. The
women who held her stared horrified, then
turned aside as though in revulsion.
Mrs. Prohaska, released, stood stupidly
for a minute, weaving from side to side.
Then she turned and ran, erratically but true,
back to the door of 228. The others in the
street screamed, but Mrs. Prohaska ran on,
almost eagerly, as if to a lovers’ meeting.
Again the tenement swallowed her bulky
figure. Again Vida and Joe heard her stum-
ble through the hall and up the stairs.
But she didn’t come down again. Though
they waited for long minutes, she didn’t
come down again.
There wasn’t a sound.
Joe seemed badly shaken, but Vida had
an explanation.
“Nuts,” she said. "Mrs. Prohaska beat it
out the back way, too, after putting on that
act. You know what? I bet the Prohaskas
46
'WEIRD TALES
want to buy this dump, and they’ve started
all this talk and stuff to run the price down.
You wait and see. They’ll be laughing at
ever/'body yet.”
Joe didn’t appear convinced, but Vida let
it go at that. 'They had to wait a long time
before the little crowd of frightened women
aaoss the street finally drifted away.
Joe and Vida sneaked out the rear door
then, but a block away they looked back at
the house. The late afternoon sun shone
brilliantly, but the dreary tenement at 228
lay in shadow. Joe pointed this out. Pointed
out too, significantly, that there was no other
building or anything near to cast the shadow
on 22S.
As though the darkness emanated from
the leaning frame pile itself, like evil mist
from a swamp.
Vida only shrugged, annoyed. She sup-
posed she’d have an awful time getting Joe
to meet her there after this.
A fter supper that night, Sam was full
of the story of Mrs. Prohaska and her
son. He babbled and spat until, Vida
thought, he v/as like to drive her nuts. It
wasn’t enough that she had seen the thing
herself that afternoon. Now she had to
ihten to it, too. God, but she was fed up
witli Sam. If she didn’t think of some way,
soon, to get rid of him !
He finally finished the story at last and
waited, bug-eyed, for her com.ment. She told
him the same thing she’d told Joe. The Pro-
haskas w'anted to buy a house, cheap. But for
once she couldn’t drive Sam into abashed
silence.
"Why for the Prohaskas buy a house?
They got a house,” he pointed out with irre-
futable logic. "Besides, where are they now?
Nobody’s seen ’em.” He shook his shiny
b.aid head sagely. "Ain’t nobody ever gonna
live in 228 again. Ain’t nobody ever goin’
in there again. Not, and come out.”
He looked up then nervously, obviously
afraid to see what effect this brash contra-
diction might be having on Vida. But, sur-
prisingly, she was smiling and nodding her
tawny head in a pleased sort of way.
"That’s right, Sam,” she said softly. "No-
body who goes in there is ever coming out
again. Everybody kaov/s that now. The
whole Valley knows it, don’t they?’’
"Yeah,” Sam said, and looked pleased to
see that for once Vida agreed with him.
Vida’s eyes were shining. It was perfect!
And to think that Sam himself had shown
her the way!
Sometimes, Vida thought, she had to
laugh.
S HE was afraid maybe she’d have a little
trouble persuading Joe. But in its way,
indirecL'ly, the house at 228 helped her there,
too. For Joe met her there again "only just
this once. ’ He was afraid of the house. He’d
had enough of it. He v.'anted her to run
away with him.
"Why do we hang around here for, any-
way?” he asked. He looked around the
dirty room, and seemed to cock a listening
ear toward the upper floor. "We stay in the
Valley, this is the only place we can meet.
Let’s blow.”
Vida veiled her eyes that he might not
see tlie swift exultation there. This was
going to be easier than she’d thought.
"You got the money?” she asked, though
she Icnew what his answer would be.
"No.”
She looked at him thoughtfully, then. She
waited a minute before she said slowly,
"Sam has. Sam has a lot.”
"Well?”
She moved closer to Joe. "Something
could happen to Sam. He could fall, maybe.
Or — or hurt his head, real bad.”
Joe said nothing. Wasn’t he ever going
to get it? Did she have to draw a picture?
She kept the irritation out of her voice.
"Maybe he’d die. Maybe his body would gc i:
into one of those empty freight cars on th:.-
siding, bade of the house. It might be a long
time before they found it, you know. The
car might be in Arizona by then, or Cali-
fornia, of anywheres.”
Joe said, "And by that time they wouldn’t
know where he’d come from. Or even who
he was.”
Vida’s arms slipped around his neck.
"That’s right.”
Joe had an objection. “But, look. The
people around here, they’re going to wonder
where Sam went all of a sudden.”
"Oh, no, tliey ain’t.” She had all she
could do to keep from laughing. This was
the best part. This was the joke. "We’ll see
THE LEGEND OF 228
47
to it that someone tells them Sam came here
— but didn’t come out,”
Under her hands she could feel Joe’s body
begin to shake. He got it. He was laughing,
too. Pretty soon he’d think the whole thing
was his idea. Well, that was okay with her.
She felt his body stiffen.
"But, look,” he said. "Why not let Sam
come here and go upstairs, instead of me —
killing him?”
She wanted to scream at him, “Because,
stupid, there isi'dt anything up there!” He
believed in the horror on the fourth floor,
just lilce the rest of the saps around here.
With an effort she kept her voice honeyed.
"Wild horses wouldn’t drag Sam up there,
and you know it. Besides, even if he went
we wouldn’t know — we couldn’t be sure
he was dead. But if you come over to my
place tonight — ”
She had her way, for Joe finally snickered.
“Okay, I’d like to meet your husband.”
"And he’ll be dying to meet you,” Vida
said.
That set them laughing again. But pres-
ently they stopped, and Joe’s parted lips met
hers fiercely.
Even while she strained closer to him,
Vida thought, "Dumb slob! You dumb slob,
you!” Once Sam was out of the way and she
had the money, she’d get rid of Joe. She’d
be free. She. was smart. There wouldn’t be
anything she couldn’t do.
Joe pulled away from her so suddenly
that she v/as afraid he’d guessed her
thoughts. But he was only listening, his
head bent.
"Sh!” he whispered. "I heard something,
just then — upstairs.”
Oh, for God’s — ! She pulled away from
him. Annoyed, she caught his hand. "Come
on! Let’s go up and see what’s there and
settle this, once and for all.”
He would have hung back, but at the ill-
concealed contempt in her eyes he went to
the hall with her. Together they mounted
the stairs. But they only went to the third
floor. There, even Vida halted. They heard
a soft slurring sound of motion coming from
above them. But it wasn’t tlrat that drove
them down again.
It was the smell. The horrible stench
seeping down from the fourth floor.
Joe’s forehead went shiny with sweat.
Joe’s hand on her arm forced her down the
stairs again.
“Whew!” she said, once again in the
front room on tlie first floor. “Dead rats?”
Joe kept looking over his shoulder into
the hall. He didn’t say anything.
She laughed at him, after that. He saw
the contempt in her eyes, and he resented it.
He tried to laugh, too, and conceal his fear.
But she knew he was terrified of the house.
Perhaps she remembered diat, later on.
Perhaps she even had time to think, when it
was too late, "But I’m the one who should
have been afraid!”
AM never knew what hit him.
But it was — ^pretty terrible. Vida
hadn’t loiown how horrible it would sound
— the hammer crashing down on that shiny
defenseless skull. To make it worse, Joe had
gone on wielding the hammer long after it
had seemed necessary, long after Vida had
whispered thickly past the sickness in her
throat, "Stop. Stop, Joe, that’s enough!”
Joe’s lips were drawn back in a grimace
like a dreadful laugh. His eyes were ab-
sorbed. It seemed hours before he heard her
and that uncomprehending look faded from
his queer light eyes. It frightened her, that
look. For the first time, Joe seemed other
than a stupid tool whom she could maneuver
as she wished.
"What’s the matter?” Joe asked. "You
look scared.” Plainly it pleased him. He
went on, as if he’d made a discovery, "You
thought I’d be scared, like I was in 228 .
Sure, I was afraid there. I’m afraid of
anything I can’t see, or understand, or put
my hands on. You thought it was funny.”
He weighed the hammer in his hand. "Why
aren’t you laughing now, Vida?” His eyes
lifted to where she v/as crouching against
the opposite wall.
Her narrov/ red tongue flicked out to wet
her lips. But she couldn’t say anything.
Joe laughed strangely. "I’m the boss
now,” he said.
She straightened at that. The queer look
was gone from his eyes. She’d tell him
where to head in. “Look here — she began.
But Joe was absorbed in the diamond on
Sam’s little finger.
"It don’t come off,” Vida said sullenly,
diverted for the moment. "Sam told me,
48
WEIRD TALES
iiioie than once. Mrs. Ostrowski knew it,
too. She thought it was a good joke on me,
because she knew how bad I wanted it.”
She .brought soap and water with which to
attempt easing the ring off. But it me.ant
touching Sam. She shuddered and went
about it so gingerly that Joe pushed her
aside.
"I’ll do it. Get out of my way,” he
ordered.
But the ring defied his every effort. Vida
was all for letting it go, however reluctantly.
She was nervous. She wanted Sam’s body
safely out of the house. And quickly. But
Joe said, "I’ll get it off, by God, if — ” -
He slammed down the inner stairway to
the grocery store beneath the flat. When he
came back, he had Sam’s black tin cash box
under his arm. In his free hand, he held a
meat saw.
Vida’s eyes widened and her "Oh ko,
Joe!” was a sigh of horror. Still it had to be
done. But did Joe have to look like he was
enjoying it?
She turned away, trying to close her ears
to the hideous sounds the saw was making.
When the dreadful noise finally stopped,
and she could bring herself to look again,
the diamond w'ss winking at her from Joe’s
hand.
And Joe was smiling at her blandly. A
smile that only increased her uneasiness.
had never been so glad before to see
O the sunrise. In the kitchen of the flat
above the grocery store, Vida stood at the
v/indow overlooking the railroad siding.
That had been the one danger. That the
cars might stay for days on the siding, as
they sometimes did. But it v/as empty now,
and the cars, including the one that was serv-
ing as Sam’s temporary tomb, were gone.
During the night, switch engines had
panted, and couplings had locked, as men
shouted in hoarse voices. Vida had heard
For all she remembered, someone else
might have helped Joe spirit Sam’s body
dov/a the stairs and up the embankment to
the dark red freight car. There was only this
dull aclae in her shoulder from Sam’s dead
weight to remind her it had been she. There
were only the cuts and bruises on the soles
of her feet from the gravel that had slipped
into her sandals as they struggled up the
embankment. She’d never felt the pain
until this morning.
Joe came out of the bedroom behind her,
.and slipped his arms around her. She tried
not to let him see how tense she grew under
his hands. She was afraid of them, and of
him. It would be so easy for those hands to
slide around her neck —
She forced herself to turn around and
face him. He must have noticed her cring-
ing, for he was smiling in a satisfied way.
But his eyes remained cold and mirthless.
"I better beat it out of here vAile it’s
still early,” he said. "I’ll get hold of Elena
Ostrowski and tell her to spread it around
that she seen Sam going into 228 last night,
but she didn’t see him come out. She’ll do it
— for five bucks.”
Vida stirred. "One is enough.”
"I said five,” Joe repeated, too pleasantly.
"I’ve opened Sam’s cash box- — ”
She came to life then, eagerly. "How
much v.'as in it?”
"Five thousand.”
"Joe, give me — ”
"I’m taking care of it. And the ring.”
He waited a minute, his light eyes dating
her to object. "You got any kick to make?”
She wet her lips. "N-no. Well — no.”
Joe smiled. "Elena’s story will get around
today. Tonight we can leave.”
She forced herself to slide her arms
around his neck, and pressed closer to him.
"Joe, let me keep the ring and money.
You’re crazy about me, aren’t you, Joe?”
"Sure.”
Over his shoulder, where he couldn’t see,
she smiled. She’d been afraid of him too
soon. This was the way to handle Joe.
He pushed her av/ay from him gently, but
too quickly for her to erase the smile.
"I’m a fool a'nout you, baby,” Joe said
easily. "But I’m not a damn fool!”
tie kissed lief once, hard, then he v'.is
gone. She paced the flat from front to back.
He couldn’t get away with this! She’d be
damned if she’d let him! Just wait till- he
came back!
She stopped then in her angry, aimless
progress.
Maybe he wasn’t coming back!
But he came back all right. He returned
late that afternoon with the first wave
THE LEGEND OF 228
49
of mourners. No matter how little they
liked her, the Valley was quick with its
sympathy, and sincere.
Vida had been expecting them all day.
She was prepared.
"But why would Sam do sucli a thing?”
she asked over and over, careful to look first
bewildered, then appropriately stricken.
"Why would Sam go in that dreadful
place?”
They didn’t know. They could only tell
her what Elena Ostrowski had said — and
he didn’t come out.”
"You mean,” Vida slowly let it dawn on
her,” "he’s — dead?”
They turned away sadly, not answering.
Behind their backs Joe made a long face,
mock-tragic. Vida lifte’d her handkerchief to
her eyes, and rocked back and forth, incon-
solably.
She was doing fine. She even felt like a
sorrowing widow, she thought in pleased
amazement. She would have convinced them
all — if it weren’t for the Ostrowski’s.
They were there when she looked up at
the sudden hush — ^Big Mike Ostrowski him-
self, flanked on one side by his wife, on the
other by Elena. Elena’s wrist was grasped
in her father’s big hand. She was white. It
was that which warned Vida. In the corner
behind them, Vida saw Joe’s face grow sud-
denly wary. The other neighbors present
fell silent. Big Mike was a leader, of sorts,
in the Valley. People listened when he
spoke.
His eyes scanned the room. "You there,
Joe Ross, why you give my girl five dollars
to say she seen Sam go in 228, and not come
out, vrhen she didn’t see no such a thing?”
There was a gasp from the crowd. Vida
fidgeted. From outside, on the rapidly dark-
ening street, she could hear a buzzing as of
angry bees. Mike had brought others with
him! What did it all mean?
Elena whimpered. "Fie made me tell, Joe.
He caught me hiding the money. I — ”
"Shut up, Elena!” her father ordered. He
looked at Vida. "We talked it over — the
Mrs. and me. We know there was only one
reason why Sam would go into 228, when he
v/as' so scared of it. You. He was crazy
about you.” He came and stood over her
accusingly. "You sent him a message saying
you were a prisoner there, or something,
didn’t you? So he’d go in. Didn’t you?”
Even then, in all the danger and taut
suspense that hovered over the room, Vida
almost had to laugh. They tliought that was
how she’d got rid of Sam! If they only
knew! But the freight car was gone. They
couldn’t prove anything. She looked straight
in Mike’s eyes.
"You’re nuts,” she said boldly.
She got away with it. They believed her.
The silence was broken by a pent-up sigh
from many throats. Big Mike shifted un-
certainly on his huge feet.
Vida saw Joe shoot her a quick glance of
approval for keeping her head. His face was
rigidly calm, falsely innocent, but his fore-
head was shiny witlr sw'eat. He put up a
hand to wipe away that betraying evidence
before it could be noticed.
Mrs. Ostrowski shrilled, "Lookit! Lcokit
on his hand! Sam’s diamond ring, what
wouldn’t come off his finger!”
Everytliing happened so fast then. Vida
could hardly see. Big Mike yelled, "Grab
him!” The crowd surged forward, mutter-
ing. Joe caught up a carving knife and held
it, point toward them.
"First guy touches me gets this in the
belly, I ain’t foolin’!”
They stopped. He edged toward the back
door.
"It was her idea, anyway.” He nodded at
Vida.
Vida’s hand went to her mouth. "Joe!
Joe, don’t leave me here alone!”
"Take care of yourself,” he snarled.
"That’s what I’m doin’.”
But he had the money! And the ring!
She’d be left with nothing!
"Joe!” she wailed.
But he was gone.
T here is only a gaping black hole now
where the four-story flat building once
stood at 228 South Railroad Avenue. But
the legend about it has never died.
The drear}" tenement burned down that
night. Big Mike Ostrowski himself set fire
to it with one of the glowing torches he’d
caught up from someone in the angry mob.
But that was later. Much later.
The people of the Valley have their own
laws, and exact their own punishments. The
City, just over the railroad embankment, is a
5'0
WEIRU TALES
million light-years away. Not for the Valley,
its imiformed police, its courts, its penal
institutions.
No. Vida should go the way Sam had
gone. They sentenced her themselves, there
in the none-too-clean kildaen of her own
flat.
She couldn’t believe it at first. Why, the
poor fools! 'They were setting her free!
These dumb slobs didn’t know it, but they
were setting her free! Sure, she’d go in 228.
She’d go up to the fourth floor. She’d shag
through the fourth floor, if they lilced! And
when she’d come out again unharmed,
they’d let her go. They’d have to let her go.
They couldn’t prove a thing.
And when she caught up with Joe, as she
would if it took her years — !
Her mouth straightened vindictively.
She said not a word as the Valley-ites es-
corted her down Railroad Avenue.
Opposite 228, Big Mike said, "Don’t
think you can just walk through the second
or third flat and out the back way. There’ll
be men watching in back. And you’re to
carry this, so we can see you through the
windows of the front stair-hall as you go up.
We’ll know it if you don’t go to the top
floor.’’
He held out a stinking, lighted, coal-oil
lantern. She took it, her lips curling dis-
dainfully. They didn’t put a hand on her,
but the force of their hatred, their stern de-
termination seemed to propel her across the
street and up onto the outside stoop of the
dark building.
She hesitated there, but not from fear.
Just before she entered the door, she turned
and faced them all defiantly.
"You dumb slobs!’’ she spat at them.
"You dumb slobs, you!”,
T hey only stared at her stonily, impla-
cably. No one said a word. Their very
silence seemed to whip her on. When she’d
gone in they stood there in a body, watching
the hall windows at every landing between
floors. They saw her pass the first, the sec-
ond. The gray oblong of the window would
lighten as she approached it, lamp in hand.
They could see her as she passed. Then the
window dimmed and the one above it grew
gradually brighter.
She climbed mote slowly as she neared
the top floor. Perhaps from weariness. Per-
haps, they hoped, from fear. The last time
they saw her was at the window on the
landing between the third and fourth floors.
She stopped there and held the lighted
lantern high, so that they might see her
clearly. With her free hand, she made an
impudent gesture. The crowd sighed, disap-
pointed. So she wasn’t afraid then. They
could even see her red lips laughing scorn-
fully as she turned away to climb the last
flight of stairs.
The window grew gradually dimmer as
she mounted. Then the square of light held
one tone of yellowish-gray for seconds, as
if she’d reached the top floor at last, and
stood there waiting. ’
It was the smell, again, that made her
hesitate — the gradually increasing stench.
She stood there, wavering. The lantern
threw dim light in a golden fan on the living
room floor before her. Fragments of decayed
food were there, scattered about; and scraps
of stuff — bits of clothing, she guessed, from
their color and texture.
She shrank from the task before her. But
— there was no going back.
At length she advanced, and the wedge-
shaped segment of faint light advanced with
her. Into the living room stealthily she
moved; breathlessly across the floor to the
dingy golden oak colonnade leading to the
dining room.
And there she stopped. Frozen.
Her spine was whispering to her atavisti-
cally. Bidding her turn around. Warning
her of the thing that slithered from the
black corner behind her — ^the hairless, fur-
less, featherless monstrosity, its hideous
body gleaming like slimy, wet red rubber,
its opalescent shallow eyes, glaring, fixed
upon her.
She wheeled. The lantern sent crooked
shadows dancing eerily on the walls. Just
one vivid glimpse she caught of it — bloated,
inhuman, grotesque.
Even the people in the street heard the
viscid bubbling, then, of the creature’s sa-
liva. And abruptly, as they waited, there was
a brittle, spilling crash of sound, and Vida’s
light went out. . . .
They say her screams were terrible.
^upepAtitiond an d I
005
WJi
lU OLD TIMES
THE OWL WAS
CONSIDERED A
MOST CFFENStVE
AND UHIVM BIRD t
IT WAS BE Li EVE D
To BE A MESSENGER
OF DEATH and iTS
CRT WAS THOUSHTTO
FORETELL THE APPROACH
OF SOME OiRE
CALAMITY ORORPAT
XN TmES OF
DROUCSHT OR OTHER
NATIONAL CRISES, the
ANCIENT MAVAHS
SACRIFICED BEADTiFUL
YOUNG GIRLS TO THEIR
GODS I They WERE
FLUNG INTO AN EIGHTY-
FOOr SACRED WELL
AT OAY6REAU.AND
SF THEI SURVIVED
WERE HAULED OUT AT
NOON AND QUESTIONED
AS To THE INTENTIONS
Of THE GODS. IF THE
MAIDENS failed TO
REAP PEAR, rr WAS
CONSIDERED AH ILL OMEN
AND THE ONLOOKERS FLED .
WITH LOUD LAMENTATIONS Q
©
51
By AUGUST DERLETH
M r. jasper camberveigh
was a methodical gentleman
who tose each morning at seven
o’clock, regardless of the weather; but that
morning, for a reason unaccountable to him,
he woke half an hour later.
That was the first disturbing fact.
The second was a curious little occur-
rence for which, likewise, Camberveigh
could not account. When he gazed into his
bathroom mirror the face which looked back
at him was briefly, not his own. What was
Heading by A. R. TILBURNE
52
He had the logical 7iian’s dislike for fantasy and vague fears
THE LOST DAY
53
most odd about this was the fact that fot
a few moments he was not atvare that it was
not his own face, despite the plainly seen
age of that visage — almost twice his fifty
years. Then something happened to him,
to the mirror, to his sense of balance; he
almost fell; the image in the mirror became
misty and its outlines gave place to the more
familiar lineaments of his face; and in a few
seconds he found himself gazing into his
own troubled blue eyes and fingering his
own, firm jaw.
Even this disturbing dislocation was not
yet the last of the mysterious events of that
morning, for, when he went to turn on the
radio for the usual B. B. C. newscast, the
first thing he heard was this: "Saturday,
May seventeenth. British bombers were
over enemy territory again- last night. ...”
Saturday, May seventeenth!
Camberveigh’s first thought, being a
scholarly person and a man of fixed habits,
was that the announcer had made a mistake,
but as the newscaster’s voice droned on,
speaking of the events of the preceding Fri-
day, Camberveigh had to admit that it must
indeed be Saturday morning.
But Vv'hat, then, had happened to Friday.^
For Camberveigh had gone to bed on
Tliursday night, and by all the laws of time
and space, this should be Frida-y morning!
He was gravely disturbed. If he had been
in any -way under the weather on Thursday,
he was prepared to admit tlie spare possi-
bility that he might have slept through Fri-
day. But he had been in exceptionally good
spirits and health on Thursday; he had made
his custoimary rounds of the second-hand
book stores' — oh, yes, there v/as. that old
leather-bound book he must return to Max
Anima in Soho — a.nd he had gone to bed
at his usual hour: eleven o’clock, a bedtime
he had obser/ed ever since the death of his
wife five years ago. And he felt his usual
self this morning, save for that curious ex-
perience in the bathroom- — and, of course,
waking half an hour later than usual. Half
an hour! Great heaven, a whole day and a
whole night later! And half an hour on top
of that!
Camberveigh shaved and had breakfa.st,
preoccupied. If indeed he had slept through
Friday, he ought certainly to be hungrier
tiian he v/as. But he w.as not huonrier
than usual. Moreover, if he had not shaved
on Friday, he ought to have had a greater
growth of beard. Furthermore, there were
curious misplacements of objects in his
house which led him to the unavoidable
conclusion that he had not slept through
Friday. Obviously, then, he had been up
and about at something. But search it as
he might, his memory told him nothing, his
memory presented an absolute blank.
And yet not quite absolute: there was
deep witliin him an urgent conviction that
there was something strange and terrible he
ought to know.
Camberveigh, however, had an habitual
dislike for fantasy, and he refused to enter-
tain vague fears, premonitions, hunches, and
the like. Granting the fact that somehow
his doings on Friday the sixteenth elude I
his memor}?, he had today to do the things
he should have done on Friday. That book
Anima had loaned him must be returned
to the old book-seller. And he must have
a visit with his physician to ascertain whether
this sudden lack of memory about the previ-
ous day might be a symptom of some seri-
ous physiological disorder. A stitch in time,
he thought.
A ccordingly, stiii troubled about
his flawed memory, Camberveigh sat *
down and had a look at the book. Anima
had pressed it upon him, saying it was full
of antiquities, and, indeed, so it was. He
examined the binding and had an unpleas-
ant conviction that it was bound in human
skin. The book itself xea.s written in Latin
and was quite difficult to read, for the print
had faded in many places. It was obviously,
however, one of those curious items on de-
monology and allied occult matters, and he
was a little puzzled to know why Anima
should have insisted that he take it along,
when Anima knew very well his interests
lay primarily in the field of entomology and
ornithology, both of which were qaite dis-
tinctly removed from the occult.
He read a passage here and there, trans-
lating as he read. "To summon from the
Pit Him \'7!:o Will Serve you can be done
in this wise . . . ’ here followed an elabo-
rate formula. Ke i:;uied a few pages. "It
is possible at the- mid fight hour to call up
the spirits of iho dead and hold c;>ni-
54
WEIRD TALES
munion with them in regard to events of
the future. . . He turned a few more
pages. "Thus it can be that through the
medium of the accursed object, it is possible
to send forth one’s spirit self, the astral
body, and dispossess another for a brief
time, but only for so long as the object re-
main in his possession.” He dipped into the
book farther along. "Quentus had with him
continually a large black dog, commonly
held to be his familiar, a certain evil demon
summoned from the Pitt and put into his
service. ...”
Certainly it w'as interesting, Camber\'eigh
thought, in a detached way; but it was not
in his field, and he must regretfully return
it and spend no further time on it. He had
little enough time to devote to his studies
as it was. He wrapped the book carefully,
got dressed, took his umbrella — though it
was an exceedingly mild day outside — and
set out for his doctor’s office, which was
within walking distance of his home.
There was nothing whatever wrong with
him,
"Perfectly fit,” said his physician. "Your
experience is certainly odd — hut not at all
unique. Such things have happened before
and will happen again. Forget about it.”
"But I have the feeling that there is some-
thing about yesterday I ought to know.”
"So would I, in the circumstances.”
Somewhat reassured, Camberveigh went
on his way. He descended to the Under-
ground, and, while waiting for his train,
bought a copy of the News of the World.
British bombings, threats of German repris-
als, Spanish toadying to the Axis, American
toadying to Spain — disgusting! He turned
to an inner page and saw that one of his ac-
quaintances had come to his end in a violent
manner. "Murder of Rochard Craig!” read
the headline. "No further clue has thus far
been discovered in the search for the mur-
derer who entered Rochard Craig’s home
sometime yesterday and killed Craig when
discovered in the act of rifling Craig’s
bookshelves of rare old volumes which con-
stituted the heart of the Craig collection.
Craig was stabbed to death. Search is be-
ing made for the missing volumes but there
is little hope. . . Horrible! thought Cam-
berveigh perfunctorily, and went on to read
the usual column on birds in the country
written by a retired beekeeper in Sussex.
His train came and he took it to Soho,
taking pleasure in the accounting of what
the linnets and the cuckoos and a rare pere-
grine had been up to during the past week
in Sussex. He caught the correspondent in
what he was convinced was a minor error,
and made a mental reservation to write and
challenge him on the point, however trivial
it was. The scientific amenities must be
observed, fancy must not be confused with
fact, the truth must be adhered to with ex-
actitude. 'Tliat alone was the proper atti-
tude.
H e arrived at Anima’s hole-in-a-cor-
ner book shop some time after the
lunch hour, but, since he was habitually a
lackadaisical luncher, he did not mind, "rhe
shop was, as usual, quite dark; it was set
into a little alley, and even with the bright-
est sunlight, not too much light ever reached
inside. So much Camberveigh had observed
on his first visit to Anima’s shop, which
had been made only a little over a fortnight
ago, and had been brought about by a
chance meeting with the bookseller himself
in an air-raid shelter. Anima seemed to
prefer it that way.
He stood for some time waiting; perhaps
the bookseller was at his luncheon, perhaps
he had not heard the little bell tinkle. After
waiting a few moments in vain, Camber-
veigh walked back among stacks of books
and touched the bell with his umbrella. 'This
time it brought Anima out of the back
room.
A small, wizened man, not very strong,
who came obsequiously and with narrowed
eyes. "Ah, it is you,” he said with an al-
most offensive familiarity. "You have
brought my book back, eh.?” His eyes fell
upon the package Camberveigh carried, and
—could it be? — lit up with a strange, eager
sense of possession.
Abruptly Camberveigh heard himself say-
ing, "■'jjTay, no. I’m sorry, Mr. Anima. I
found it so interesting to read that I wanted
to look it over a little longer. I thought
you would not care if I kept it at least over
Sunday.”
Anima was disappointed. He shot a
sharp, inquisitive look at Camberveigh, but
was apparently satisfied by what he saw in
THE LOST DAY
55
Camberveigh’s face. He nodded curtly,
and said very well, Camberveigh might read
it if he liked. "But not over Monday,
mind! I must have the book back Monday.
I need it. I am — studying in it.”
Camberveigh left the shop in perplexity.
What inexplicable motive had hripelled him
to keep the book? Why had he suddenly
thought there was something shudderingly
familiar about the old man whom he had
viewed witli the most aloof unconcern at
every previous meeting? It was extraordi-
nary — and yet, was it, indeed?
It came to him with a feeling of chilling
shock that he had seen Anima’s face since
bis last visit to the shop. The feeling be-
came conviction, free of all doubt.
Fleeting as it had been, it was Anima’s
face which had looked at him out of his own
mirror that morning!
On his way back to his rooms, he tried to
rationalize his actions. But they were in-
capable of rationalization. Of a sudden
there in that dark shop, when confronted
by Anima’s eagerness to repossess his curi-
ous book, Camberveigh had been assaulted
by an eerie determination to retain posses-
sion of it.
He had acted on impulse, something he
had never done before. But now, as he sat
there in the underground train, he was con-
scious of a great turmoil inside him, of a
conflict of emotions rooted in some facet
through to which he could not reach; once
again it was wound up with what he ought
to know about the previous day, but there
was the conviction that he was close to
knowing, that indeed he knew, if only he
could understand. It w'as extraordinary, and
it was extremely upsetting to a man as me-
thodical as Camberveigh.
Really, he did not want to see any more
of Anima’s book. What imp of perversity
was responsible for his action? He had
had ample time to examine the volume, for
which he began now to feel a faint distaste,
an aversion which, like his sudden impulse
of but a short while ago, he could not ex-
plain. He took the book home with him and
unwrapped it again.
T he binding was certainly of human skin.
There was no telling how old it was, but
it was not so mucli a genuine book as a
compilation of various printed things gath-
ered up by some long-dead collector, and
bound in this hideous fashion. Camberveigh
thought it might conceivably date back to
the time wdien Black Masses and devil wor-
ship were flagrant in London, but he was
a little haz}' on his dates.
He turned from the book and set about
answering the morning’s post. But he could
not keep his attention to the mail; he kept
thinking about the book, about Anima and
his strange eagerness — first, to press it upon
him; then to take it back. He thought about
the incredible fascination that the volume
seemed to have for him at the same time
that he was conscious of its repellence.
Finally, he got up, because he could no
longer continue to struggle v/ithin himself,
and went over to the book and opened it,
determined that he might as well be me-
thodical about it and read in it until he was
thoroughly tired of it. This he did. He
read all about demons, witches, warlocks,
cabalistic rites, certain strange practices of
Druids, ancient religions, spectres, astrals,
hauntings; he read until nightfall, and then
put the book aside.
At that hour, it w^as his custom, being a
neat man, to clean his apartment. He set
about doing this, and so came upon his gray
suit dropped behind an overstaffed chair.
One of his best suits, too! How had that
come to be there? He picked it up, indig-
nant. Surely he could not have done that
even in a state of trance, if he had been in
one on Friday! To add to his indignation,
he saw when he had rescued it, that not
only was the suit badly wrinkled, but it was
very dirty and dusty, as if he had carried
something heavy against it; and finally, he
saw that it v/as stained rather messily wdth
something that had dried brown into the
fabric and looked rusty.
He brushed his coat, and finally carried
it tentatively to the wash-bowd in the bath-
room, where he wet one of the stains gin-
gerly and scrubbed at it. The water came
away a kind of odd brown-red — ^the w'ater
in the bowl began to look the way it did
when he had washed out a blood-stained
handkerchief after a bad cut a month ago.
Camberveigh stood and looked down into
the water. What was it he saw there? What
depths of darkness and horror looked up
56
WEIRD TALES
at him from this curiously colored water.
He looked at his suit and abruptly thrust it
from him. Then he took it up again and
gazed at it more intently. If the stains were
blood-stains • — what made those serried
marks of dust and dirt? ' As if books had
been carried there, pressed close to his body!
His mouth and tiiroat v/ent dry, and he
began to tremble a little.
W hat went through his mind was surely
impossible! But now, inexorably, his very
method began to make itself felt. He went
back in memory to the visit he had paid
Anima on Thursday; he reconstructed, word
for word, their conversation.
"Do you know Rochard Craig?” Anima
had asked.
"Yes.”
"Ever been in his house?”
"Oh, yes.”
"Know your way around then, eh? Seen
his collection?”
"Yes, though I don’t go in much for
books.”
"No, you bugs and bird people don’t ap-
preciate inanimate things.”
So much of it came back with striking
clarity.' Anima had mentioned Rochard
Craig; Anima’s envy at mention of certain
of Craig’s books was umnistakable. What
were they? His methodical mind presently
gave him a title or two, whereupon he went
at once to the papers and looked up those
titles among the books listed as missing
from Craig’s collection. They were there,
duly listed.
Camberveigh mixed himself a Scotch and
soda and dranlc it fast.
Then he went back to that horror of a
book still lying on the table where he had
left it.
After some while of searching, he found
the passage that had recurred to memory.
Thus it can be that through the medium of
the accursed object, it is possible to send
forth one’s spirit self, the astral body, and
dispossess another for a brief time, but only
for so long as the object remains in his pos-
session. I-Ie read on in growing amazement.
What was set down there was inconceivable,
incredible, and yet . . .
Yet there were those blood-stains on his
suit; there were marks as if he had carried
away books; there were so many curious
facts that they went beyond mere 0)ind-
dence.
And the accursed object— surely the
book!
Given him by Anima, who had somehow
then taken possession of him. That was
where his lost day had gone. , UnbelievjJble
as it might be, against all reason —
offered the only comprehensive explanation
of what had happened to his Friday.
He read on, struggling to keep his natural
scientific prejudice from getting in the way.
Apparently there was but one risk run by
the projector; mitil his "abject” was re-
turned to him, there existed by its very pos-
session in the hands of another a bond be-
tween them; that would surely account for
Anima’s eagerness to regain his book. Yes,
it was undeniable, it made a precise pattern,
with every facet fitting neatly into place.
Camberveigh sat back, little beads of cold
perspiration on his forehead. He lit a ciga-
rette. He must think.
He knew enough about the laws of evi-
dence to know that if the investigation of
Rochard Craig’s death — ^ho, how foul! He
revolted against himself at the thought that
his hand might have brought it about — ever
got to him, he would not have a China-
man’s chance. There was the condition of
his suit, the blood could be analyzed easily;
there were the books — no doubt whatever
that Anima had them; he would certainly
testify that Camberveigh had brought them
in Friday, on that infamous lost day. And
perhaps even the weapon — ! He got up on
the instant and began an intensive search.
In less than half an hour he discovered
it; a little stiletto he had picked up long
ago at a sale at Petrie’s. It was awkwardly
hidden behind a shelf of books. What evi-
dence!
Fie took it out and washed it thoroughly.
The hour was now quite late; darkness
had fallen. He paced his rooms for a while
in deep thought, but eventually he returned
to the book.
What v/as it he must do as Anima had
done?
Still incredible, he took the book,
stretched out on his bed and began to fol-
low the instructions put down in that la-
bored Latin.
It seemed to him after a while that he
THE LOST DAY
57
slept . . . and that he dreamed. Of foggy
streets, and the voice of London muted in
the night, a London where nothing was ma-
terial; and he passed through walls as if
they were air, swiftly, swiftly, recognizing
streets, lanes, buildings; and he was in Soho,
going down that little alley, passing into
that hole-in-a-corner shop with its musty
books. And it seemed to him that he en-
tered into die wizened, crabbed figure lying
asleep there and took his body and destroyed
it. And then again the fog and the night
and London asleep, save for those dark-
eyed, sleepless creatures who walked its
streets by night, pitied by darkness, the for-
gotten and homeless. . . . After a long while
he struggled awake, tired as if he had not
slept at all. But he had. He had awakened at
promptly seven o’clock on Sunday morning.
Ah, what a dream he had had! But —
was it a dream? He was still fully clothed.
He leaped from his bed and knocked down
that book of Max Anima’s. With a shud-
der of revulsion, he picked it up and car-
ried it back out to the table.
I T WAS not a dream. There was his suit,
still, with those ghastly, incriminating
stains. There was the stiletto, too. Worst
of all, there was the book bound in human
skin. Who could doubt that it was ac-
cursed?
Anger and frustrated rage and bitterness
rose in him. It took him some time to
quell these emotions, to bring to bear upon
his problem the fundamental meticulousness
of habitual method. He reviewed his situa-
tion; it was not good. Surely it was beyond
the bounds of possibility that no one had
seen him in the vicinity of Craig’s house;
Anima in his physical self need not have
feared being seen. Even if he, Camber-
veigh, had guessed, could he tell the police?
He could picture the reception such a fan-
tastic rigmarole would receive!
He snatched up the book again, took his
suit, and descended to the basement, where
he lit a fire in the furnace and carefully de-
stroyed both objects. After he had com-
pleted this task, he removed the ashes,
cooled the furnace, and ran the ashes down
the drain. 'Then he took the stiletto,
walked out, and dropped it into the Thames,
which flowed past not far away.
After this he returned home, shaved
methodically, and got himself some break-
fast, thinking.
If anyone had seen him on that lost Fri-
day, by all the laws of average, the police
would soon be at his door. At least, the
evidence was gone now. He had more than
a fighting chance. He began instinctively
to gird himself for battle. Actually, he
was not guilty, but there was no way in
which he could involve Anima, none what-
ever.
In any case, he was beginning to have
grave doubts about the whole matter. That
damnable book had actually suggested that
no psychic force could compel anyone to
do something- against his own nature, and
the implications of that were monstrous!
He turned on the radio and dialed for the
news. He was a little late. He missed the
war bulletins and got the late London news.
"Max Anima, eccentric bookseller famed
for his skill in obtaining rare and unique
out-of-print books, was found dead this
morning in the rooms behind his bookshop.
He had apparently committed suicide. The
door of his rooms was locked on the in-
side ...”
So that, he thought, was that!
At that moment there was a ponderous
and authoritative knock on his door.
Now then, he thought, and went confi-
dently forward to open the door.
An Inspector from Scotland Yard stood
on the stoop. With a polite "Good morn-
ing,” he walked in, quite sure of himself.
^ ^^/itimate Paradox
By THORP McCLUSKY
Thirty years in the employ of the scientist
and he’d seen a lot of strange sights . . . .
hut this ....
W HEN Beecham, gardener, chauf-
feur, and man of all work to Dr.
Severance, the retired physicist,
f.rst saw the crochety old man standing on
the lawn bej'ond the rose arbor, adjusting
a strangely complex machine about his body,
he thought nothing of it, but went on with
his pruning. In the tliirtj^-odd years he
had spent in Dr. Severance’s employ he had
seen too many strange sights to become im-
mediately interested in every new gadget
with which' the old man toyed. Cursorily,
he noticed that the thing was cumbersome,
and that there .were many tiny wires and
belts connected about it which bothered the
master somewhat in the fastening; he no-
ticed a fiat, mc'callic cabinet suspended down
Dr. Severance’s back, and a composition
panel set with a chaos of small dials and
switches hung across the aged man’s chest.
But these details interested Beecham only
momentarily, and, after a brief stand-up-
a.nd-stretch, during which he wiped a spray
of July sw'eat from his forehead, he bent
down again to his work.
Nor did he look up w'hen, live or six
minutes later, the shadow first fell across
him. The day had been, up to that mo-
ment, broilingly cloudless, and his first im-
pression was that the sky was becoming
overcast. Thinking that the shadow might
be that of his employer, and without look-
ing up, he said, jovially, "I take it the day
is fair enough for you, Dr. Severance, sir?”
Silence, intense and unexpected, an-
sw’ered. Beecham, believing that, after all,
it had been a cloud, and anxious for rain
to freshen his parched gardens, looked up
toward the sky, and screamed, stranglingly,
in mortal terror!
Before him, in the acre or so of lawn
Heading by BORIS DOLGOV
58
THE ULTIMATE PARADOX
59
that stretched up to the rear of the house,
stood the embodiment of an insane dream:
the figure of a man, a thousand feet tall! A
mighty metal fabric the size of a battleship
was on its back, and its chest was covered
with monstrous mechanisms. The nap of
its garments was lilce thickly woven haw-
sers. The thing’s tremendous feet almost
covered the lawn, and as Beecham watched
he saw the soles of the shoes spreading out
in every direction, as fast as a man might
walk. Beecham screamed again, and the
sound was like the voice of nothing human.
And while he watched, paralyzed with fear,
the thing grew skyward.
Suddenly the nightmarish petrification
left Beecham’s legs, and, howling and froth-
ing, he ran across the gardens toward the
road. Other people were running from
neighboring houses; Beecham saw them ges-
ticulating and shouting. Some covered their
faces with their hands, ostrich-like, cower-
ing where they stood. Others ran, aimlessly,
stumbling and falling, getting up to run and
stumble and fall again.
The shadow was no longer falling on
him. The sim shone again, glaringly hot.
Beecham looked back. The figure, grown
immeasurably more huge, had stepped from
the lawn across a v/ide expanse of pasture
land, and was standing at the edge of a
wood.
From far down the road Beecham heard
the wail of a siren. A long black touring
car raced down the boulevard and with
brakes screaming, stopped abruptly beside
the hedge a few feet from Beecham. It dis-
gorged a number of policemen.
Police Captain Riley looked across the
pasture-land toward the wood.
"My God, what can we do against a thing
like that!” He was not afraid, but his voice
shook. He carried a submachine gun in
the crook of his right arm, but, after a mo-
ment’s hesitation, he shrugged, turned and
put it down on the front seat of the auto-
mobile.
Siren after siren wailed as the police came
in patrol and radio cars, on motorcycles, in
commandeered automobiles. The roadway
was jammed. Beecham, feeling less afraid,
wornieJ his way toward Captain Riley,
"My God, are we goin’ nuts entirely?”
Riley was saying.
"Please, officer,” Beecham pleaded, pluck-
ing at Riley’s sleeve, "I know him.” He
gestured toward the figure. "It’s Dr. Sev-
erance. I’m his man Beecham, and I’d
recognize him anywhere.”
"Holy Mother of Mercy!” Riley cried,
looking first at Beecham, and then at the
silent colossus standing in the wood. He
said no more, only stared at the thing that
grew there, stared with his mouth hanging
slackly open, and a greenish sickliness on
his face.
B y that time there must have been
half a thousand people lined along
that road, watching the wood a mile away,
and the being that rose, second by second,
into the sky. For the most part there was
silence. 'There was an occasional scream,
and there were curses that were really pray-
ers, but there was no coherent word spoken
in all that first ghastly half-hour. For it
occupied no more than a half-hoiu alto-
gether, that first stage. Watches cannot lie,
and cannot be frightened.
A horrible sound of crashing trees and
crunching shrubbery came from the wood.
'The figure did not move; it only grew. And
the forest crashed as it grew.
Perhaps twenty minutes had passed since
Beecham first noticed the shadow. The-
figure at the end of that time was probably
five miles tall! This estimate cannot be con-
sidered accurate, as it is partly based on the
testimony of witnesses who were, at the
time, half mad with fear. Afterward, how-
ever, measurements were made by municipal
surveyors which showed fairly definitely the
extent of damage to the timber, and from
these measurements it would appear that the
impressions left in the wood by the feet of
the figure were upwards of three thousand
feet in length.
From the time it had stepped from the
garden to the center of the wood the fig-
ure had not moved. It stood as if anxious
not to cause any more panic than would be
unavoidable by reason of the fear occasioned
by its Gargantuan size. In fact. Captain
Riley remembered later having remarked
that, "It doesn’t seem to want to squash any-
body, does it?”
All at once, people noticed that the
sounds from the forest had ceased. No one
60
WEIRD TALES
was able to recall exactly when they ceased
— rather most people remembered that their
attention was drawn from the rending of
live wood to the more homely sounds about
them: the chattering of nerve-wracked
voices, the clatter of rifle-butts, and the sick-
ish sucking of tires on sticky macadam. But
the forest was silent. No more trees fell.
The figure still grew.
The first fright began to leave the ma-
jority of those who watched. They spread
out along the hedge beside the road, and
waited, looking toward the wood. They
moved and talked as though they dreamed,
as though their dreams were nightmares
which had failed to develop the maximum
of horror. This curious mass reaction was
no doubt due to a subconscious lessening of
fear of the figure, which had not threatened
them in any way.
The figure rapidly reached such propor-
' tions that any attempt to estimate its actual
siae by comparing the statements of eye-
witnesses becomes absurd. The feet and
legs tow'ered out of the wood, which they
had almost completely hidden, and the rest
of the figure v/as so foreshortened by the
nearness of the people huddling beneath it
that the upper part of the body was beyond
view.
It%vas possible to watch, almost foot by
foot, the steady growth of the colossus. Rank
after rank of treetops disappeared, sound-
lessly, apparently vanishing within the solid
leather of the bootsoles. It was not until
the feet, after swelling entirely out of the
wood, had begun to advance across the pas-
ture that those watching observed an in-
credibility.
It luas as ij the -wood and pasture-land
became a part' of the figure, or, conversely,
the figure became a part of the landscape,
without harm to either! Amazed, the peo-
ple watched, and saw that a tree, merging
into the colossus, v/ou!d not tremble even in
its tiniest leaf, but, on the contrary, would
stand erect as if the monster engulfing it
were no more than impalpable fog.
Then a man, more sharp-eyed than most,
shouted, '"The damned thing’s transparent!”
Presently all of those who watched sav/
that this was so. As t!)e great bootsoles,
like monstrous ramparts of leather, advanced
over tile meadnv.--;: 'hey saw that they cccld
discern the outlines of trees and rocks
ivithin their surface, as though encased in
brown ice.
The boot-soles, a thousand feet high, had
advanced halfway across the meadows. The
police began to clear the road. Captain
Riley and his men, spread a mile or so up
and dov/n the road, continued to watch the
sheer brown mountain that, grown out of all
semblance to anything describable, towered
into infinit}' a scant hundred yards away.
Their automobiles, drawn up alongside the
road, stood with motors idling, ready to
speed them to safety.
Two state policemen, as though gripped
abruptly by a common impulse, vaulted the
hedge and cautiously advanced across the
meadow. Tliey approached within a hun-
dred feet of the billovdng brown wall. Then
one drew his automatic, dubiously emptied
its magazine into the advancing mass. Turn-
ing, he looked at the policemen scattered
along the road, and grinned. Then, wav-
ing his hand, he walked directly into the
tawny transparent immensity.
For possibly twenty or thirty feet he con-
tinued. Once or twice he put his hand be-
fore his eyes, as a man, walking in a thick
smudge, might do. Then he came out, and
held his h.inds high over his head to show
that he was unhurt.
He talked to his companion. They stood
close together. The city police clambered
os'er the hedge and came toward them. The
brownish wall continued to advance. It
filled half the sky, like a great cloud.
The thing was becoming colorless, and
more and more transparent. It reached the
policemen, and crossed the road. There was
nothing solid about it. The men walked
in it as they zmight walk in a dirt;', fine rain.
It had become a faint brownishness that
tinted faces, houses, trees, the sky and the
earth alike, but that had no realit}^ to it.
W ITHIN the hour the vanguard of a
swarm of reporters and sensation hunt-
ers began to arrive. They vecre disap-
pointed, for there was nothing to see. Ex-
cept for an unusual brownish tint which
hung in the sky, and which made the late
afternoon heavens strikingly beautiful, there
was nothing, nothing at all,
"What vaas it.^” the papers asked, later.
THE ULTIMATE PARADOX
,61
hoax? Mass hypnotism? What caused
the destruction in the forest? Why the
great footprints, etched in splintered trees?”
Captain Riley, seeing that the danger, if
any had ever existed, was over, sent his men
back to the city. He was about to clamber
into his car himself when he saw Beecham.
He remembered that Beecham had told him
something crazy.
"Hey, you! What’s this you said to me
about Imowing that?” He waved an in-
effectual arm in a half -circle that took in
half the world.
Beecham licked his lips.
"I said it looked like Dr. Severance,” he
mumbled.
Riley considered. He felt empty, like a
child who has seen a bubble blow up and
burst. "Get in,” he growled. "We’re go-
ing over and have a talk with your Dr.
Severance.”
The car, Riley driving, with Beecham
huddled beside him, hurtled savagely down
the road and pulled up with a jerk before
the Severance estate. Riley, mumbling
angrily, gestured to Beecham to precede him
up the walk. The screen door was un-
latched.
Beecham entered, Riley close behind him.
They walked through the library. There
was no one in the room. At the far end of
the library was a heavy, golden-oak door.
"Where’s that go?”
Beecham hesitated. "That’s Dr. Sever-
ance’s study. He never lets me inside.”
"You go ahead,” Riley snarled. “By
God, you open that door.”
Beecham’s trembling hands pushed open
the door . . .
W HEN old Charles Severance, standing
on the lawn beside his house, adjusted
the straps about his body and threw certain
small switches in the panel on his coat, he
knew with a fair degree of certainty just
what would happen. He knew that the
mechanism, or rather the complexity of
mechanisms, which he had devised was
capable of doing two things. It built up a
field, electrical in nature, yet which tapped
sources of pure energy which were even
more fundamental than electricity, which
exerted an explosive force upon every pro-
ton and electron, on every fleck of energy.
within a certain radius. In non-technical
language, it was a repulsive force, universal
yet limited to its own boundaries, which
caused every electon within those boundaries
to recede from its proton, and every proton
in turn to repulse every other proton. Thus
any matter placed within its field, and acted
upon, grew, retaining its original mass, di-
minishing in density; the apparatus itself,
being within the field, also grew, and even
the field itself, because its action was cumu-
lative, grew. This entire process was pro-
gressive and proportionate.
Many scientists have long known that
there is a universal yardstick of energy. Call
it by any name — call it electricity, although
we know that electricity is only a manifes-
tation of it, as is gravitation — call it pure
forces — call it God; whatever it is, it is the
building material of all the universes. Doc-
tor Severance had discovered a way to pour
this energy into his field. He had also ob-
served that this pure force ob^ed certain
simple laws. It spread uniformly through-
out a given space, like water, which seeks a
common level, and maintains, within nar-
row limits, a certain density. Released with-
in the confines of Doctor Severance’ field,
this force would immediately commence
adding energy, or mass, to every proton and
electron within the field until, should the -
process not be halted, the field itself, and
everything it contained, would become a
ball of pure force. The fundamental en-
ergy was apparently available, in limitless
quantities, throughout all space.
Doctor Severance was well aware that he
could never reverse the action of his appa-
ratus. Energy once poured into its field
could never be withdrawn. Once he sub-
jected his body to its influence there was
no going back. . . .
Standing on the lawn and growing, grow-
ing — Doctor Severance, with the thorough-
ness which was second nature with him,
mentally recorded his sensations. He had
synchronized his apparatus so that his dens-
ity would increase in correct proportion to
his mass.
He felt no bodily sensations whatever, no
nausea, no dizziness, nothing. Yet the
ground sank away from him on all sides,
the houses shrank to doll-like proportions,
and the road before his house became a
62
WEIRD TALES
tiny black ribbon. He looked down. Tire
traffic had stopped for a mile or more up
and down the road, and one stumbling fig-
ure, seemingly an inch tall, in the greenish
patch that was his garden, he knew to be
Beecham. He smiled, but then, noticing
that the lawn on which he stood was grow-
ing too small, he stepped into the wood.
Growing, growing, growing — ^he watdied
the landscape fall away from all about him
and the hills became little ridges across the
earth. All at once he noticed that the trees
were crumbling beneath his feet, and, afraid
that he might unwittingly destroy property
and human life, he hurriedly switched off
the tremendous surge of pure force which
had, until that moment, kept his density
constant. He did not know exactly what
would happen; he might conceivably die,
but it was better that he die than that the
world be destroyed.
He looked about. The horizon was
sweeping away from him, and hills and
mountains climbed into viev/. Beneath him
clouds billowed, and fragments of the earth
v.-ere obscured.
As the ocean of air above him grew
thinner the vault of heaven darkened and
became purplish; the clouds beneath him
were like the surface of a tumultuous sea,
splashed Avith gold by the sunset.
He noticed that he was becoming dizzy.
The sky above him was almost black. He
fumbled beneath his shoulder for the noz-
zle of the oxygen tube, and fastened the
mouthpiece across his face. The dizziness
left him.
He looked at the sun, a blinding, bluish-
white ball, with great vari-colored streamers
writhing and tossing on its surface and far
out in space. The sky had become com-
pletely black, and v/as spattered with mil-
lions of hard, unblinking stars of every
color, each piercingly bright, each incon-
ceivably remote.
Tire earth beneath his feet had become a
great ball. Along, its eastern edge there lay
a belt of purplish darkness. He noticed
that he could no longer feel it, as something
solid, beneath him. He looked down once
more, and saw that, like a great ball a hun-
dred feet in diameter, it was moving slowly
away from him. Half of it was bright and
shining, like aluminum, Avhile the other half
was a blackness against the stars. Across
the edge of the earth the moon appeared.
He could see it move. Apparently his time-
mode was becoming slower. Watching the
moon, it seemed for only a few minutes,
he saw it come entirely within viev/. The
earth had diminished to a ball the size of a
house. The moon moved faster.
Both the earth arid the m.oon were mov-
ing away. They became a pretty little mech-
anism the size of a dinner plate, the moon,
like a white cherry, encircling the earth in
the time it takes to draw a breath.
Presently they were lost in the glare of
the sun.
He experienced no sensation of either
cold or warmth.
Apparently a non-lum.inous body in free
space could not radiate heat. He touched
his hands together, and felt the pulse beat-
ing in his wrists. Looking downward at
his body, he saw half of it bathed in bright
sunlight, the other half outlined as a black-
ness across the stars.
Almost within arm’s reach he noticed a
ball the size of a small shot. It was vaguely
reddish in color, and spinning so rapidly
that the surface markings upon it were
blurred. It rushed toward him. He knew’
that it was the planet Mars, and, full of a
vast curiosity, he watched it bury itself in
his side. He turned his head, and in a sec-
ond saAv it emerge from the small of his
back. He chuckled.
W ITHIN minutes the solar system swept
by. Jupiter passed almost as dose as
did Mars, but seemed the size of a chern’-
stone surrounded by whirling motes of light.
Saturn, with her rings and galaxy of moons,
he picked out against the blinding blanket
of stars by her rapid progression across
their motionless field. Uranus, Neptune,
and Pluto he did not observe. The sun be-
came only another star amid the multihide.
For a moment, before he lost sight of it in
the swarm, he believed that he saw it sur-
rounded by rushing circles of light, which
could only be the planets whirling about it,
hundreds of times in each second.
Presently the very stars themselves were
moving, at first slowly, and then with the
speed of meteors. Tlie little duster in which
he found himself became disk-shaped, and
THE ULTIMATE PARADOX
then it was spinning, faster and faster. The
individual stars had become indistinguish-
able, and he only saw them as clusters that,
apparently, stretched on without end. A
universe lay across his thumbnail; a multi-
tude of universes spangled his body. And
still there was no end to them; they merged
into each other until even they were merely
flecks of light surrounding him and extend-
ing onward into infinity.
Then a strange thing happened. He no-
ticed that the universes were no longer giv-
ing out light. Perhaps they had been slowly
dimming for several moments; he was not
sure. But, nevertheless, they had become
lightless while, paradoxically, it was becom-
ing lighter all about! A faint, almost in-
tangible glow was growing steadily, all
about him. The individual universes, even
as lightless motes, impalpable as dust, were
no longer distinguishable. But in their place
he saw vague clusters that seemed to be in-
animate matter!
They were gigantic, and they filled his
vision like gargantuan mountains. But, like
the universes, they became swiftly smaller,
and, as their size diminished, their outlines
became more plain. At last, and beyond
the possibility of doubt, he saw that he
stood amid a cluster of huge rocks, appar-
ently of pure quartz, that towered over his
head.
He felt no surprise, but only a tremen-
dous exaltation. He knew in that moment
that he had successfully stepped upward a
plane in the gigantic cosmic stairway, and
that he was on another world! Those quartz-
like rocks all about were, he knew, micro-
scopic specks of sand. He stood in their
midst and watched them diminish and
others like them come marching into his
horizon.
Gingerly he turned on his universal force
mechanism. He needed mass, the mass of
a billion universes!
And still he grew, until he approximated
what he believed to be the height of a man.
Then he turned off his mechanism.
All about him stretched a wilderness of
sand, a desert of limitless expanse, rolling
away, lifeless, flat, and heat-tortured, to the
horizon. The sky overhead was a deep
blackish blue, and no cloud broke the mo-
notony of its vaulted arching. Halfway
&3
down the sky hung a dwarfish, blue sun,
crackling out the heyday of its youth like
an electric flame.
The sun was not old, but the planet was
already old and dead, burned to death, most
likely, he thought. Without doubt there
was no place for him on this sunbaked
world. He was already becoming faint from
the heat. He glanced at the dial on his
oxygen tank, which registered three-fourths
capacity, and, with a regretful glance about
him, turned on his mechanism.
He had learned so pitifully little about
this new universe into which he had cast
himself! Able to step upward from universe
to universe at will, able to encircle within
the confines of his field an entire cosmos,
yet, his apparatus at rest, he became, on
the surface of any world to which chance
brought him, merely a halting, stumbling,
defenseless old man.
The sum total of the knowledge he had
gathered about this world, this universe, he
was leaving, was negligible. He could not
know if the desert in which he had stood
covered the entire surface of the planet,
or was limited in extent. He could not tell
if the blue sun blazed fifty million or a
billion miles away.
He watched the planet dwindle and van-
ish, the sun merge amid others that blan- -
keted the black sky with unfamiliar con-
stellations; he watched those constellations
themselves fall together into puffs of light
that merged into other puffs of light. And
presently he felt himself developing into
another space.
A ll about him billowed a sea of in-
tensely crimson light. He could not
feel it, because he was impalpable, and it
flowed through him without harming him
as molten iron flows in a vacuum. He did
not dare admit pure force within the atoms
of his body until he definitely knew the na-
ture of the substance surrounding him, and
that it could not harm him, so, after a brief
pause he continued on, growing, growing,
growing, while the crimson flow swirled
about him and through him.
Presently he felt the red fire washing
through and about his eyeballs, thinning
above him, giving him the sensation a swim-
mer might experience while emerging, witih
64
WEIRD TALES
opeaed eyes, from beneath the surface of
water. He looked out upon a sea of leap-
ing fire, extending in every direction as
had the sandy desert a few moments be-
fore. Above his head was a lake of black-
ness, strewn with stars.
He knew then that he had been within
a sun. And so he went on, and that sun
shrank within him until it became like a red
orange lying within his chest, and the stars
and universes moved toward him once more,
and became little clouds of energy that
passed within his body, and a new space
opened about him once again.
He saw that he was enveloped in a gray-
ish fog, lying thick and dark about his feet
and legs and up to his waist, but thinning
to a dirty darkness about his head and
shoulders. He could see no more than a
few feet in any direction, and the sliminess
in 'which he stood was agitated, now and
- again, as if by the passage of some form of
life through it. Shuddering, he continued
his growth until he stood in the grayness
like a man in a limitless puddle. Mist
swirled about his face, and he could barely
see his shoetops.
He allowed energy greater than that of
the universe he had encompassed to flow
into him, and watched the dirty slime stir
momentarily beneath his feet as the atoms
of his body pushed it aside. Then he stepped
out briskly and aimlessly, eager to explore
this strange \vorld.
He realized that he was in some form of
bog which, because of its shallowness, could
not be very extensive. He was right, for
he had scarcely walked fifty paces when the
ground beneath him shelved upward very
slightly, and he found himself waist deep in
a forest of lush, whitish, fern-like vegeta-
tion. He continued struggling onward
through the luxuriant growth for another
hundred yards, searching for an open space,
but the ground, flat and featureless as a din-
ner plate, remained encumbered with the
forestlike growth. He frequently heard the
crashing of heavy bodies through the for-
est, and knew that this young, moisture-
drenched planet thronged with life.
At no previous time had he regretted his
infirmities so much as now. Here, all about
him, stretched a young world, rich in vege-
tation, rich in atmosphere, rich in animal
life. He longed to walk beneath the pal-
lid, gigantic vegetation, but he could not,
for he already tow'ered above it! To ensure
his safety, he had increased his stature to
an extent that prohibited adventure. He
was a giant, unable to do more than peer
down into a weird, gloomy world.
His old mmscles ached from the exer-
tion of walking, and, seeing no sign of an
open space where he might sit, he turned
on his mechanism again until the great
vegetation beneath him was no more than
grass, inches high. Then he sat down, and
held his forehead in his hands. He was
deathly tired.
H e made atmospheric tests, for sooner
or later he must find a vrorld on which
he could live. The atmosphere was rich in
oxygen, saturated with water vapor, capable
of supporting human life. He recharged
his oxygen tanks, and standing erect, looked
about him.
The fog was so thick that he could not
see the ground beneath his feet. He went
on growing, growing, until his head topped
the clouds. But there was no break in their
ranks. They extended onward, like a mourn-
ful sea, in every direction. He started walk-
ing, in three-mile strides, and went on un-
til he was tired. Occasionally he felt uneven
hummocks beneath his feet, and knew them
to be hills and mountains; again he felt
water sopping his boots, and knew that he
walked in rivers and lakes. But there was
no end to the blanket of cloud.
So, again, he looked into the heavens, at
the great yellow sun warming this watery
world, at the unfamiliar stars that would
soon be atoms within his body, and slowly,
tiredly, sent himself onward into the in-
finite.
While he grew, and w^hile universes and
yet other universes became pinpoints of
light within him, he slept.
When he awoke it was to the same kalei-
doscopic change he knew would be. Star
clusters all about him leaped into view,
diminished and vanished in puffs of light.
He craned his head and read the dial of
his oxygen tank. He had slept (although
it is absurd to speak of time when every-
where, except within his field, time flowed
like a millrace) possibly tv/enty hours. With-
THE ULTIMATE PARADOX
65
in a short time he would have to replenish
his oxygen, or perish.
Again the stars dimmed about him; the
light from overhead strengthened. Once
more he was surrounded by mountainous
grains of sand, shrinking away from him
as he grew, and he knew that he was upon
the surface of a world. Here he found air,
water, pleasant fields and gentle beasts, and
he stayed on this planet many days.
But because there was no life with which
he could exchange ideas he became lonely,
and presently he went on once more. Be-
yond time, beyond space, beyond all things
except himself, he climbed the awful lad-
der he had built into infinity. The gray
left his hair, and it was white.
He lost count of the worlds he visited,
and of the universes shrinking and growing
before his eyes. He lost count of the times
he slept, and of the food he ate, and of the
things he saw. His life was a constant halt-
ing, and going on. The prime motive in
it was the oxygen tank, which he filled un-
numerable times.
So years, as his body knew years,
passed. . . .
H e met and conversed with creatures
more perfect than humans, and with
creatures of intelligence more abased than
devils. He saw holes in space made by
suns so great that not even light could go
forth from them. He saw living things,
without minds, more huge than Betelgeuse;
he stood upon a great green planet so vast
that, witlr pure force filling his field until
he could barely lift an arm, he remained
still so impalpable that he could walk
through metals. He met a mighty philoso-
pher on a tiny, dying planet, v/ho preferred
to journey on with him. Together they con-
structed an hermetically sealed cabinet,
which, philosopher and all, he could carry
within his pocket.
They went on, and they might well
enough have gone on together until they
died, but for a strange thing.
Once again they saw the universes fad-
ing into lightless specks about them, and
the brighter light flowing down from above.
Once again the bits of inanimate matter
became pebbles, and they stood in grass
which tow'ered above them like a great for-
est. The grass fell away from them, as
they grew, and they looked upon a green
world, into a blue, cloudless sky. They saw,,
halfway down the sky, a yellow sun. And
they thought, "This world is good.”
The forest of grass fell to Doctor Sever-
ance’s knees, and then to his ankles. Look-
ing about him, he felt that tliis world re-
minded him strangely of one he had left
long ago. Then a few yards away, he saw
the house he had lived in on Earth. . . .
There was no mistaking it. Hie warm,
brownish brick walls, the leaded windows,
the sloping, slate roof, the trellised walk
leading to the garden, everj'thing was there,
as if he had only just stepped out of doors.
Dazedly, he snapped off his mechanism.
Another strange thing happened. Every-
thing became black, as though he were
blinded. He could still feel the earth be-
neath his feet, but he could see nothing.
He tried to take a step, and found that he
could walk. Then, after he had taken a
few steps, the sunlight burst upon his eyes
again. Feeling slightly b-ewildered, he
stumbled toward the house, a few feet
ahead.
Mechanically he tapped upon the glass
window in the small cabinet in which the
Philosopher lived, and watched , that circu-.
lar transparency begin to revolve, as the
Philosopher hastened to come out and join
him.
Walking like one confronted by an in-
credibility, he entered the house, and went
into his study. Nothing was changed,
papers neatly piled beneath paperweights
lay on his desk, and a warm midsummer’s
breeze came into the room from the garden.
He sat down at his desk, pillowed his face
upon his arms, and tried to think. He lost
tract of time, but long minutes, a half hour,
hours passed. The Philosopher waited.
There was a commotion at the front of
the house, voices, footsteps. Beecham came
in, followed by a policeman. . . .
Nothing of a dramatic nature occurred.
Doctor Severance looked up mildly, and
asked Beecham what he wanted, and who
the gentleman was, and the utterly bewil-
dered Beecham mumbled something, and
Captain Riley, thinking that Beecham was
a fool, mumbled something also, and both
men left the room.
66
WEIRD TALES
But before they went out they did not
fail to notice the little metallic box on the
table, with its circular window, and the
many-legged, scaly thing that emerged from
it and sat upon it, and watched them
through black, bottomless eyes. And
Beecham looked suspiciously at the curious
harness on the floor just behind the desk,
and remembered that it was very like the
harness he had seen on the monstrous thing
standing in the lawn, earlier in the after-
noon.
In a very few days the apparition in the
skies was forgotten. Beecham, alone, won-
dered why, in an afternoon, Doctor Sever-
ance’s hair had grown completely white.
A nd in the laboratory, the two beings,
the Philosopher and Doctor Severance,
studied and planned and wondered. "They
sought, among other things, to know what
had become of the years during which they
had wandered up the infinities. Dimly,
they sensed behind that paradox a simple
law, and, in the workings of that law,
power.
They built a curious globe, and on it
they ruled innumerable circles, which they
called by many names. And on this globe
time was a circle, and a certain energy was
another. And they sought to prove that,
as Doctor Severance had gone through all
matter and through all energy, so had he
progressed over all time, from the begin-
ning to the ending of things. And that, con-
tinuing along the great circle drawn about
the curious globe, representing energy, it
necessarily followed that, reaching the point
on its length from which he had started,
the same point on the time circle would be
in juxtaposition. What was time? 'They
knew that our stellar universe had come
and gone and come again a trillion times
during each second they had lived on those
other worlds.
They sought to solve another truth; that
in their bodies were all the universes, while
yet they remained tiny motes upon one small
planet circling a minor sim; that in the
heavens were all things and, too, in every
speck of dust were all things, that were,
and are, and ever shall be.
Now the Philosopher, who, despite his
utter ugliness and loathsomeness (as
judged by humans) was a great and noble
soul, believed that, with more experience,
might come a solution of the problems
which evaded them. So it was that one
evening Beecham, knocking at the study
door and failing to receive an answer, went
in, and found no one there. The strange
harness was gone, and, although Beecham
did not know, another like it. . . .
Beecham, looking in the corner, observed
the curious box in which he had seen the
Philosopher. As yet uncertain whether to
call in the police, he picked it up idly, and
caught himself wishing, with regret, that he
had had a better look, that day, at the
creature the master picked up in the garden.
In the July WEIRD TALES
AUGUST DERLETH tells us about ....
“The Watcher from the Sk]
also
MANLY WADE WELLMAN « RAY BRADBURY
« ROBERT BLOCH EDMOND HAMiLTOI
The Witch
By WILLIAM De LISLE
ipHE farmer loathed the priest
for all his wealth
and begged that I should
take him off by stealth.
He promised gold to work such deadly harm;
he called him snouting Paul and shaveling monk
and other names. Trembling with hate he slunk
out of my hut. And I began the charm.
I called for Meg to bring the mandrake weed
that shrieks when it is dragged;
for Rennie Stump who lives by Hangman’s Common
to croon an incantation for the deed;
we gathered in the cunning herbal woman
to stew the simples: when the night was fit
a dozen gib-cats round the throat we slit.
Then sat we all beneath a westering star.
We glared with malice on his window pane;
and when we howled together for his bane
the rectory casement gently swung ajar.
He got him slowly, slowly, from his bed:
the charm went blasting home — he fell down dead.
Giles leapt for glee on his fresh-heapen mold
but when I pleaded, cringing, for the gold,
he spat and swore, and spurned me in a ditch.
Out and aw'ay — he snarled — thou noisome witch.
Staggers and glanders took his colts away;
foot-rot destroyed his ewes and lambs: one day
insane he gave his farmstead to the fire
and hanged him from a rafter in his byre.
6?
usic-Box From Hell
By EMIL PETAJA
R OLPH mace hunched under the
awning of the antique shop, glow-
.ering at the March drizzle as he
waited for his bus. If it hadn’t started to
rain he could have walked, and saved seven
pennies. Or if his Aunt Audrey would
hurry up and die he wouldn’t have to maJce
trips downtown for medicine.
After she died he could shut up both the
east and west wings of tlie old Mace Man-
sion, and live in two little rooms in back.
Wouldn’t cost one-quarter the money it cost
now, with the east wing open, and her burn-
ing gas all the time. And a part-time maid.
Rolph’s pinched-up face grimaced at the
thought of all that money going to waste,
Heading by A. R. TILBURNE
Recorded on metal in this i.i.ie box is a demoniac and cunning song
to wtoico no man can listen
68
THE MUSIC-BOX FROM HELL
69
when it rightfully belonged to him — as her
only heir.
"Could I sell you anything?” a voice at
his elbow asked suddenly.
Rolph turned to see a cherub-faced little
man wearing a frock coat and white side-
whiskers smiling at him jovially. He was,
apparently, the owner of the antique shop.
Rolph gave a quick glance at the motley
assortment of items in the pleasantly-littered
window, and shuddered with actual horror
at the thought of parting with hard cash for
those things.
His Aunt Audrey loved antiques. She
loved music, too, and was forever ordering
chamber music records on the sly. With her
own money, of course — but Rolph had for
more than ten years considered it his and re-
seated every mouthful she ate.
He turned his lean, stooped shoulders
away from this shop-owner in high distaste,
not deigning to even answer him.
"I have just about anything you might
want, inside,” the odd little man went on
affably. ’’Anything.”
"I don’t want anything,” snapped Rolph.
"Nothing?” said the little man. "You
must be very happy. ...”
Rolph’s pinched, bird-like features puck-
ered. Yes, there was something he wanted.
He wanted Aunt Audrey to die. ....
w-y'ou see that ring on the white velvet,
X just under the candelabra?” the little
man with the side-whiskers went on, insinu-
atingly,, paying no heed to Rolph’s obvious
snub. "That once belonged to the Borgias.
Lucrezia, I believe. Quite adept in the art
of poisoning — ^they tell me. ...”
Rolph’s lip twitclied. He gave a quick
look at the ring, scowling.
"Of course, me — ” the little man contin-
ued, 'Td choose some other method of — er
—eliminating besides poison. It can always
be traced.”
Rolph’s lip curled contemptuously. He
knew that! How well he knew that! Hadn’t
he tried to figure a way by which . . .
The little man chuckled, as at a secret
joke.
Rolph began to squirm.
"What way would you use?” he asked,
licking his thin lips.
"Music.”
’’Music!”
"Why, yes.”
"But—”
"Sorry. I have to go in now.” The weird
little man moved into the dusky doorway.
"In case you’re ever in the market for some
really remarkable antiques — ”
"Wait — ” Rolph cried. He didn’t quite
know why.
But the little man was gone.
T he suburban bus came and went, but
Rolph just stood there under the awn-
ing, racked by indecision. Finally, with a
little growl, he stepped into the antique
shop doorway, where the little man had dis-
appeared, and wormed his way past littered
tables to a little dark back ro6m.
There was the little man, all smiles.
“Decided there was something you
wanted, after all, eh?”
Rolph nodded uncertainly.
"I want — ■” He must be subtle about this.
"I want a present for my Aunt.”
The little man chuckled.
"Ah! An Aunt who loves antiques!”
"She also is very fond of — music,” Rolph
put in hastily.
"Ah! Antiques. Music. Good!” The
little man rubbed his pudgy hands together
happily. "This Aunt of yours is — ^perhaps
— wealthy?”
Rolph scowled.
"Ah! Mustn’t ask personal questions,
must we!” The little man bustled over to a
dark corner, and pulled a string connerted
to a bare light bulb. Unhappy orange light
sprayed the crowded little room. "It so hap-
pens tlrat I have just the thing you want, un-
less I am sadly mistaken!”
He tugged a small ornamented box off a
shelf, and set it down on the table in front
of them. Whipping a silk handkerchief out
of his pocket, he began -to polish it vigor-
ously.
"What is it?” Rolph asked, eyeing the
black oblong box dubiously.
’’Katchooo!” the little man sneezed, from
the dust. "Pardon me. This — ” He pointed
at it dramatically, "is called tlse music-hox
from Hell!”
Rolph sniffed. He didn’t relish idle
melodramatics. He wanted to buy, or —
better still — cajol the old man’s music-
70
WEIRD TALES
murder secret, and get back to Mace Man-
sion.
“All right,” he said impatiently, when the
little man paused. "Why is it called the
music-box from Hell?”
The little man pursed his lips gravely.
“That, my son, is a long story.”
“Well, I don’t want to hear it.”
"No?” The little man’s face fell. "Well,
suf&ce to say that this music-box was manu-
factured by the wizard, Syn Borkillish, of
Nurenburg, in the early Sixteenth Century.
It constitutes the result of a particularly
fiendish pact he made with an evil power.
He—”
"Get to the point, man!” hissed Rolph.
"What can it do?”
The little man’s eyes, bright as shoe but-
tons, seemed to look right into Rolph’s
miserly mind.
"Recorded on metal in this little box,” he
said, "is a daenioniac and cunning song to
which no man can listen without — ”
"Yes?”
"Without being snatched off the face of
(he earth into the nethermost Hell!”
Rolph’s piggish eyes snapped fire.
"And you expect me to believe all that
medieval nonsense!”
"The little man shrugged.
"Would you like a sample?”
Rolph blinked.
"But — ”
The little man laughed gleefully.
"No. Hearing just a few notes or strains
can’t hurt you. It’s the whole song. It forms
a hideous pattern which at last seizes hold
of its victim’s mind and soul, and finally —
as the last plangent chords are sounded — by
an evil rearrangement of his vibratory pat-
tern, the listener is swept irresistibly into
the Black Limbo where the demon who con-
ceived this vile song holds sw'ay. , .
R olph gaped at the strange little box
with new respect.
"Shall we have a sample?” the little man
invited again.
"No. I’ll take your word for it,” Rolph
replied hastily. "But — I don’t see any levers
or dials on it. How do you set it running?”
"By simply calling out the demon’s
name.”
"Which is—?”
The little man said it, whereupon the box
came to audible life. A windy sigh escaped
it, w'hich abruptly grew to the proportions
of a banshee’s tormented wail. At times the
song had a hauntingly sweet character, but
under this melodic line were sinister, mock-
ing intimations of carnate sin and evilness.
'The non-human voice seemed to beckon
— to call Rolph into timeless depths. . . .
First it was merely unnerving, then un-
bearable.
"Shut it off!” he shrieked.
The little man shouted another outlandish
word. The song vanished.
Rolph’s pinched face illuminated with
avarice. He almost drooled.
He must get hold of that box! It would
dispose of Aunt Audrey beautifully, and no
one would ever know. Corpus delicti, you
understand. Then she wouldn’t be around
any more to waste money on medicine and
part-time maids, and order phonograph rec-
ords on the sly.
But — he mustn’t act eager. He would
outwit this simple fool — ^get the music-box
for nothing, if humanly possible.
He ran his finger gingerly along its
weirdly-cold surface.
"How much are you asking for this piece
of junk?” he asked casually.
'The little man beamed on him.
"Oh, a mere nothing. Ten thousand dol-
lars.”
"Ten thousand dol — And that’s your
rock-bottom price?”
"I’m afraid so.” The little man sighed.
"I wouldn’t sell it at all, only I need the
money so desperately. You see, my shop is
mortgaged to the hilt.”
"Umm.” Rolph’s eyes narrowed craftily.
After all, once Aunt Audrey was out of the
way he could return the music-box, and tell
this stupid little fool he’d changed his mind.
Thus he would get the use of it without
having paid a cent! "I’ll take it. Only — I’ll
have to send you a check tomorrow morning.
Will that be satisfactc: ?”
The little man nodded, rather wistfully.
"Yes, That will be fine.”
UDREY MACE was a sweet-faced old
lady who found it more expedient to
let her half-sister’s penurious olfspring man-
age the affairs of her lovely old house on
THE MUSIC-BOX FROM HELL
*71
Windsholm Hill. Ail she asked of life now
was to sit by her little parlor gas-fire and
listen to Haydn or Mozart on her old phono-
graph.
Even that pleasure had been dimmed in
latter years, not only by Rolph’s persistent
growlings about tlie few record albums she
allowed herself to purchase, but by the fact
that she was slowly going deaf, and had to
resort to the use of a hearing aid.
She had lived an abundant life, and her
memories were with her always, like a warm
shawl to cover her chilling bones.
As the dying rays of the sun sifted
through the dripping elm leaves outside her
window, she sat motionless in her favorite
wing-back chair, staring sadly at the blue
gas-flame.
Her blue-veined fingers toyed with the
hearing-aid box in her lap.
Rolph swept bat-like into the cozy old-
fashioned room, and immediately switched
off the little lamp by her elbow, and turned
down the gas.
"You don’t need a light yet!” he shouted
in annoyance. "And it’s not cold out!”
Aunt Audrey appeared not to notice. She
smiled w'anly. Rolph always acted as if they
were paupers. It was true there wasn’t as
much money as there had been, but there
was plenty — more than enough for anything
they might need.
"Rolph, I was wondering if — ”
"Listen, Aunt Audrey,” Rolph burst out,
waving a slip of paper. "You’ve been buy-
ing records again! Twenty-one dollars in
the last three months! My God, do you
think I’m made of money!”
Aunt Audrey looked bewildered, but said
nothing. She sat quite still while he went
through his scathing denunciations of all
musicians and all music. His indignation at
finding that bill in the mail box on his way
home had made him forget for a moment,
all about the music-box. . . .
"Rolph,” she ventured timidly, when his
tirade subsided. "I hate to ask you to do it,
but could you run downtown again, and
buy — ”
"Buy, buy, buy!” he shrieked. "You do
nothing but sit here all day thinking up
things to buy!”
His aunt’s eyes left his furious face and
went wearily back to the frugal gas-fire.
"All right, dear. It doesn’t really mat-
ter ”
A ll in a rush Rolph remembered the
music-box. So with an awkward show
of affection he bent down and pecked at
Aunt Audrey’s withered cheek.
"Anyway,” he tittered nervously, "I can't
go downtown now. I happened to pass an
antique shop, and so I went in and bought
something for you!”
Now was a good time to do it, Rolph
thought, his crafty eyes roving. The maid
was gone for the day. No one would be
calling. Besides, he wanted to be able to
send the thing back to the shop tomorrow
morning, so he wouldn’t have to pay for it.
He brought the oddly-carved box in and
set it down on the table, just in front of his
aunt’s chair.
"A present? For me?”
Aunt Audrey was incredulous and ex-
cited as a girl.
"Why, this is so sweet of you, Rolph. ...”
She sat back in her chair, dabbing at her
eyes with a lace handkerchief, overcome
with emotion. So Rolph did love her after
all — to bring her such a beautiful gift!
"It’s a music-box,” Rolph explained,
nervously. And, in a cracked voice, he called
out the demon’s name.
He looked a last look down at her gray
head, and his thin lips parted in a ghoulish
leer.
Aunt Audrey sat back in her chair, a bliss-
ful smile on her face. A gift from Rolph!
Why, surely she had misjudged him all
these years!
The fearful song spawned in the gather-
ing gloom. The moaning wind. The ban-
shee’s keening. The falsely-sweet mel-
ody. . . .
"I’ve got to get out of here!” Rolph mut-
tered, and fled.
Aunt Audrey leaned forward, listening
intently, a sparkle in her blue eyes.
Rolph took a last backward glance, then
ran up the swirling stairway. He didn’t
want to be caught in the web of that unholy
song from Hell. . . .
R olph spent half an hour upstairs, gloat-
ing. Now the whole estate was his.
Mace Mansion, and the park surrounding it.
72
WEIRD TALES
Ail Aunt Audrey’s securities, and her lovely
dollars in the bank. ...
"It must be all over by now,” he told him-
self, triumphantly, and sped downstairs.
It took only one glance in the little parlor
to tell him that something had gone wrong.
Blazing rage took possession of Roiph as
he saw tliat his Aunt Audrey still sat, there
in her chair, placid and smiling. He cursed
as he ran to her, and the fury in his eyes
made the old lady shiver.
He turned to the music-box, which was
still venting its uncanny song, whidi had
now become incredibly soft and sinister, like
the hissing of serpents.
"It’s a fake!” Roiph shrieked, sdbbing
with disappointment. "The box hasn’t any
supernatural power! The antique shop
owner tricked me!”
Aunt Audrey seemed to be smiling — ^as if
she knew!
"I’ll fix it!” cried Roiph, striding to the
t ’.ble and reaching for the box. "I’ll break it
a million—”
What was happening?
His hands trembled, refusing to touch the
box.
. It was his ears! Something was wrong
with his ears!
"God! What—”
Searing pain severed his brain. In one
brief flash knowledge came to him, but by
then it was too late.
It luas the music — the demon’s song.
its unhallowed patterns had woven about
his brain and ensnared it. Just in that brief,
unwary moment. . . . And now his mind
was incapable of thinking coherently. It
couldn’t remember the word that would stop
'.he music and free him. Nor could his mind
direct his leg-muscles to act — ^to run. . . .
Everything blurred in his sight. The ro-
coco wallpaper patterns blended into one
empurpled smear. The prim little parlor be-
ca.me the vortex of a maelstrom.
Roiph clutclied at his throat involuntarily.
The music w’ent wild, chaotic, then
rerxlied a monstrous climax. . . .
^<TTELLO. Is anybody home?”
-Lj- ' An odd little figure in a frock coat
and white side-whiskers peeked into the
silent parlor. His shoe-button eyes saw Aunt
Audrey sitting quietly in her chair, watching
the blue gas-flame. 'Ihen they saw the music-
box on the table.
The little man uttered an improbable
word. 'The demoniac music stopped,
"Forgive my unseemly intrusion,” the
little man said, stepping toward Aunt Aud-
rey’s chair. "I’ve been knocking on your
door for hours, it seems. I wouldn’t have
burst in this way, only it’s terribly impor-
tant. You see, I contracted to sell a young
man who lives at this address a music-box,
and — ”
He paused to stare gravely down at a pe-
culiar green splotch on the faded carpet,
then v/ent on.
"I’ve thought it over carefuly, and de-
cided that this particular music-box is not to
be sold, .ever. In fact. I’ve decided to burn
it. ...”
"My nephew is — •” the old lady began.
"So you are the aunt he was buying it
for!” The little man shook his head and
clucked his tongue indignantly. "I can see
how right I was to come here. So you’re the
lady who dotes on antiques and music! Weil,
well! I practically bankrupted myself be-
cause I couldn’t bear to part with my treas-
ures. You and I have mutual manias, so it
would seem logical that we — ”
Aunt Audrey stopped him with a merry
laugh.
“You might just as v/ell stop talking,
sir!” she exclaimed. "I can’t hear a word
you’re saying. My nephew, who seems to
have gone Out, brought me this lovely old
music-box. Of course, I couldn’t hear it
either.”
She sighed v/istfully. "I just knoiv it
plays some lovely Mozart melody! You
see, sir, the battery in my hearing aid went
dead this afternoon — ^and dear Roiph didn’t
seem to want to spare the money to buy an-
other!”
Only one sort of illness co?nes and goes thusly, and evils
other than germs bring it on
ently true; but Thunstone had felt dizzy and
faint as he entered, and as he left he had to
call on the final ounce of power in his big
body to keep from failing on the sidewalk.
f g ^HE doctor told John Thunstone
I that nothing v/as wrong with him,
B and for the time they were to-
gether in the examining room it was appar-
Eeading by A. R. TILBURNE
/
IJmSk
-/3lood
From a Stone
By MANLY WADE WELLMAN
73
74
WEIRD TALES
"This tells me what I had to know,” he
assured himself. "Only one sort of illness
comes and goes so conveniently for those
who hate me. And evils other than germs
bring it on.”
A taxi returned him to his hotel, and
during the ride he mastered his weakness
of limb enough to enter the lobby and ride
up in the elevator without being noticed
by any guests or attendants, vdiose impulse
to help would have been useless and em-
barrassing. His key weighed a ton as he
unlocked the door of his suite. Once inside,
he leaned against the jamb as though he
had been shot through the body. Then,
walking leadenly to his desk, he fumbled
out a w'orn, dingy little book entitled Egyp-
tian Secrets and bearing, perhaps inaccu-
rately the name of Albertus Magnus and
author.
Inside the back cover his own hand had
jotted down a sort of index. Under the
heading Persons bewitched and punishment
of sorcerers were listed some twenty page
numbers. He sought the first, but it in-
cluded an invocation to something called
"bedgoblin," which he did not feel like per-
forming just then. Instead he leafed
through to the fifty-fourth page, where the
third paragraph was headed To cite a
witch.
"Take an unglazed earthen pot,” began
the instructions, and John Thimstone
reached for a cylindrical clay vessel with a
tight-fitting cover and an Indian pattern.
From various containers in his desk drawers
he measured in the substances called for in
the formula. Finally he plugged in the
connection of an electric grill, clamped the
lid tightly on the day cylinder, and set it
upside down on the glowing wires. "Sum-
mon the sorcerer,” he muttered, reading
from the book.
Every audible word seemed to drain
away one more drop of his strength. "Sum-
mon the sorcerer before me.”
He turned to page 16:
When a Man or Beast is Plagued
I by Goblins or Ill-Disposed People
Go on Friday or Golden Sunday,
ere the sun rise in the East, to a hazel-
nut bush. Cut a stick therefrom with
a sympathetic weapon, by making
three cuts above the hand toward the
rise of the sun, in the name of . . .
Thunstone numbly congratulated himself
in following these instructions some years
before. His head swam, his eyes seemed
oppressed by alternate flashes of light and
blotches of gloom, but he staggered to the
closet and groped in it for a padcage. Tear-
ing away the wrapping of stout paper, he
produced a rough-trimmed piece of hazel
wood, the length and thickness of a walking
stick. As his hand grasped its thicker end,
he felt better, and turned toward the grill.
Vapor of some sort rose around his day
jar. In it he saw, or thought he saw, move-
ment. As he walked toward that part of
the room, his feet steadier and stronger, the
moving object grew large and plain.
S OMEWHERE a man in a gray gown or
robe was busy at a rough table. Thun-
stone saw him, like a dimly-cast image on
a motion picture screen, bending over his
work, his hands shifting here and there in
nimble manipulation. On the table had
been outlined a little figure at full length,
a man of powerful proportions that might
be copied after Thunstone’s own. The gray-
robed one held a sheaf of sharp metal sliv-
ers, tlrrusting their points, one by one, into
the pictured arms, throat, body.
"A Shonokin,” said Thunstone. "I
thought that. And I thought he would be
doing just what he is doing. Now — ”
His big hand took a firmer grip of the
hazel cane, and he stepped forward and
swung it.
The wood swept into the cloud of vapor
and the image there cast. It swished through,
without seeming to disturb the misty cloud,
and the figure in the gown sprang convul-
sively back from the table. A face came into
view at the top of the gown, a face framed
in longish black hair, with sharp fine fea-
tures. The mouth opened as if to cry out,
a hand lifted, and Thunstone struck through
the vapor again.
The figure cowered. Its arms crossed in
front of the face, trying to w>^ard oflf an at-
tack that must have seemed incomprehen-
sible. The hands were frail and lean, and
the third fingers longer than the middle
fingers.
BLOOD FROM A STONE
75
With increasing strength and precision,
Thunstone lashed and smote. He saw the
gowned body going down now, and poked
it once, as with a sword-point. Finally he
swept his stick at the reflected table-top and
saw the slivers flying from their lodgments
in the outlined body there. Stepping back,
he turned off his electric grill. The vapor
vanished instantly, and with it the images.
Thunstone drew a deep, grateful breath of
air. He was no longer weak, unsteady or
blurred in his mind.
His first act was to open his pen-knife,
cut a tally notch in the hazel stick. Care-
fully he rewrapped it, and carefully he
stowed, it away. A weapon that has de-
feated enchantment once is doubly effective
in defeating it again — that is a common-
place of sorcery. He sat at the desk and
from the top drawer drew the sheets of
paper on which he was writing, as he found
it out, all that could be said about the
strange things called Shonokins.
"Their insistence upon an ancestry far
niore ancient and baleful than anything hu-
man may have a solid foundation of fact,”
wrote Thunstone. "Whenever paleontol-
ogists have probed the graves of the past
on tlris continent as tlioroughly as they have
probed in Europe, perhaps remains of a
species resembling man, though interest-
ingly not man, may be turned up to support
the Shonokin claims. More and mmre do I
incline to believe that here in America once
lived such things, developing their own cul-
ture and behavior — -just as in Europe fifty
thousand years ago lived the Neanderthal
race, also non-human as we know humans
(not that the first Shonokins were Nean-
derthaloid or like any other ancient manlilce
creature yet discovered in fossil).
"And, just as the Neanderthals were
wiped out in some unthinkably desperate
warfare with the first invading homo sa-
piens, so the ancestors of the Red Indian
race must have swept away the fathers of
the Shonokins — though not all of them. It
would have been a war horrible beyond
thought, with no sparing of vanquished
enemies at the end. Somehow, a few sur-
vivors escaped, and our evidence is the ex-
istence of Shonokins today. How those
beaten people lived, and where, cannot be
even guessed luitil we learn from what
place their modern children venture forth
among us, in their avowed attempts to re-
cover rule of their old domain.
"The Shonokin enchanments, or attempts
at enchantments, I shall discuss at another
place. What remains is to cite certain defi-
nite racial traits that set these interesting
creatures apart from us as human beings.
True, they resemble men at first glance.
This may be deliberate imitation of some
sort, and more may be said on this part of
the subject when an unclad Shonokin is
examined. Their heads, though habitually
covered with long hair, perhaps in disguise,
betray strange skull formations that be-
token a brain not inferior to the human but
of a much different shape. Here may be
the basic reason for differences in Shonokin
ethics and reactions to all things, physical
and spiritual. Again, the third finger of
the Shonokin hand is the longest, instead
of the middle finger as with true men. To
what remote ancestry this may trace is im-
possible to say, as even the lower beasts as
we know them have in the forepaw a longer
middle toe than—”
His telephone rang. It was the clerk at
the desk. A gentleman wanted to see Mr.
Thunstone. Might he come up?
"I’ll come down,” said Thunstone, rose
and put away his unfinished manuscript. He -
left the suite, locked it carefully, and rode
down in the elevator, whistling under his
breath.
His visitor was lean, just shorter than
Thunstone’s own lofty self, and wore a
long light coat and a pulled down hat. He
bowed and held out a hand with a very long
third finger. Thunstone failed, or pre-
tended to fail, to see the hand.
"Come and sit in the lobby,” he invited,
and led the stranger to a brace of comfort-
able cliairs in a far corner. They sat down.
At once the Shonokin took off his hat and
leaned his gaunt, fine face close to Thun-
stone.
"How much?” he demanded.
T hunstone leaned b^k, and from his
pocket drew pipe and tobacco-pouch.
He filled the pipe and lighted it. The
Shonokin ducked his head sidev/ise in
disgust.
"That filthy habit, learned from Amer-
76
WEIRD TALES
lean savages!” he growled; and Thunstone
remembered that tobacco mixed with herbs
had been considered in old Indian days an
incense to the Great Spirit and a near-fatal
fumigation to evil beings. Had not Kalas-
pup — or Kwasind or Hiawatha, whatever
his real name was — sat in enjoyment of the
thick tobacco-fumes in the lodge, while his
attackers, the water-goblins, turned sick and
vomiting? Such evidence as he, Thunstone,
uncovered tended more and more to prove
that all monsters and devils of Indian leg-
end were identifiable with the Shonokins.
"How much?” said his visitor again.
"We know you well enough, Thunstone,
to know that you are not a slave to money.
But there are other things you value. Name
them.”
"You want to buy me off,” replied Thus>-
stone. "Is this an admission of defeat?”
"An admission of irritation,” was the re-
ply. "Being tormented by a stinging in-
sect, which it is irksome to brush away, one
spills honey in another place to attract it.”
"My sting is not drawn as easily as that,”
Thunstone assured him. "Your journey is
for nothing. Go back and tell that to the
other Shonokins. Just now I am more than
irritating. Haven’t I seen two of you die?”
"No more of that!” The Shonokin lifted
his left hand, its long third finger extended
in what Thunstone judged to be a gesture
averting ill omen. No Shonokin cares even
to speak of the death of his own kind.
"You used magic against me,” went on
Thunstone, "magic so old as to be trite —
poking and piercing my likeness. Men were
successfully averting that sort of sympa-
thetic hokus-pocus as long ago as Salem
witchcraft days.”
"It is not the extent of our power,” was
the harsh reply. "But you have not an-
swered my question. Again, how much?”
"Again, you are wasting your time. Even
a Shonokin’s time must be wortli something
to himself. Good day.”
T he strange-shaped left hand dipped- into
a pocket of the long coat.
'T make a last attempt, Thunstone. Here
is something you will find interesting.”
The hand reappeared. Between its fin-
gertips was a great glitter of light.
"Jewels? I do not even wear them,” said
Thunstone, but then his eyes were fixed on
the thing.
He saw it was no jewel he knew. For an
instant he fancied it was a bit of phosphor-
escence, or some sort of lamp — but no lamp,
no phosphorus, gleaned like that. It’s glare
possessed his whole vision, seemed to beat
through his eyes and pierce his skull behind
them. Like a Brahmin looking into the
sun, he was blinded; like a Brahmin look-
ing into the sun, he could not look away.
"Rise,” the Shonokin said, "and come
v,?ith me.”
Thunstone leaned in the direction of the
voice, and blev^ out all the tobacco smoke
in his lungs.
A cry, terrible and strangled, rang in his
very ears, arid the light seemed to flash
off. There was an abrupt clinic on the floor,
as though a half-dollar had dropped, and he
sat up, alone. The tobacco smoke hung in
the air around him, a little blue misty swad-
dling through which he saw two figures —
the scurrying long-coated Shonolcin, the ap-
proaching hotel manager.
Thunstone put the pipe back in his
mouth, shutting his eyes a moment to cleanse
them of their blur. He would have smiled,
but decided not to. The manager was ques-
tioning him.
"What happened to that man, Mr. Thun-
stone?”
"He was taken suddenly ill,” replied
Thunstone. "It’s really nothing for us to
worry about.”
"You’re all right?”
"I’m all right,” nodded Thunstone.
The manager’s eyes dropped fioorward.
"Careful! You dropped a coal from your
pipe — step on it.”
'Iliunstone, too, glanced down to a little
crumb of radiance paler and brighter than
any tobacco fire. "No, don’t. That’s a
piece of cut-glass jewelry — rather skillful
cutting and polishing — I’ll take care of it.”
He whipped the handkerchief from his
breast pocket, dropped it over the glaring
object and gathered it up in his big hand.
"You’ve cut your finger,” said the man-
ager. "There’s a spot of blood on your
handkerchief,”
"Not my blood,” Thunstone told him,
"but this thing needs careful handling.”
With the cambric-swaddled lump still in
BLOOD FROM A STONE
77
his hand, he levered his bulk out of the
chair. "I think I’ll have dinner in my
suite this evening. What’s good?”
A gain in his sitting room, Thunstone
laid a china plate on his desk. Then
he chose a drinking glass from the tray
beside his carafe, and struck match after
match, painstakingly smudging its interior.
Finally he flipped the gleaming thing upon
the plate and quickly covered it with the
dulled glass. He was able to look at it
then without agony to his eyes.
The object was the size of an almond,
smoothly curved on its entire surface. Not
a single facet could he detect. But its light,
even though impeded by the soot on the
glass, was steady and strong. He drew his
shades and turned out the electric lights in
the room. Still it shone, illuminating ob-
jects to the farthest walls. Inside the ob-
ject was some source of radiance, steady and
insistent and intense.
Mufiling it still more by dropping his
handkerchief over the upturned glass, Thun-
stone sat back, smoked and thought, xifter
some minutes, he took up his telephone and
called a number which he did not have to
look up.
The woman who answered was tremen-
dously interested in the questions Thun-
stone asked, and had many questions of her
own. Thunstone evaded the necessity of
direct. replies, and finally when she recom-
mended another informant thanked her and
hung up. His second call was long dis-
tance to Boston, where a retired professor
of American folklore greeted him warmly
as an old friend and gave him further, more
specific information, finally naming a book.
"I have that book right here,” said Thun-
stone. "And I should have thought of the
reference without bothering you. Thanks
and let’s see each other soon. I may have
about half of a story to tell you.”
He hung up again, and went to his shelf.
The book he chose was slim and green, like
a cheap textbook. It was John M. Tay-
lor’s Witchcraft Delusion in Colonial Con-
necticut, published in 1908 as an item of the
Grafton Historical Series.
Almost idly Thunstone leafed through
the restrained but fascinating account of a
multiple charge of diabolism and its evi-
dence and trial, almost forgotten today
though it made grim history full tliirty years
before the more familiar Salem incidents.
Chapter 10 began with notes on the trial
of Goodwife Knapp in New Haven during
May of 1654, a trial that included evidence
by a dozen neighbors and ended with the
defendant’s death on the gallows. But it
was not the adventures of Goodwife Knapp
so much as those of a witness, Mary Staple,
Staplyes, or Staplies, that drew Thunstone’s
attention:
. . . she, ye said Knapp, voluntarily,
without any occasion given her, said
that goodwife Staplyes told her, the
said Knapp, than an Indian brought vnto
her, tire said Staplyes, two little things
brighter then the light of the day, and
told the said goodwife Staplyes tliey were
Indian gods, as the Indian called ym;
and the Indian withall told her, the said
Staplyes, if she would keep them, she
would be so big rich, all one god, and
that the said Staplyes told the said Knapp,
she gaue them again to the said Indian,
but she could not tell whether she did
so or no.
Thunstone savored the quaint spelling
and syntax as he read. ". . .so big rich, all
one god ...” What did that mean? He
turned two more pages, the evidence of one
Goodwife Sherwood, and a story set down
at fourth hand — ^the same story as before:
. . . goodwife Baldwin whispered her
in the eare and said to her that goodwife
Knapp told her that a woman in ye towne ,
was a witch and would be hanged within
a twelue moneth, and would confess her-
selfe a witch and cleere her that she was
none, and that she asked her how she
knew she was a witch, and she told her
she had reeived Indian gods of an In-
dian, wch are shining things, wch shine
lighter then the day. Then this depont
asked goodwife Knapp if she had said
so, and she denyed it; goodwife Baldwin
affirmed that she did, but Knapps wife
againe denyed it and said she knowes no
woman in the towne that is a witch, nor
any woman that hath received Indian
gods, but she said there was an Indian
78
WEIRD TALES
at a womans house and olierred her a
coople of shining things, but the woman
neuer told her she took them, but was
afraide and ran away . . .
There was more beyond of Mary Staplies.
The book called her a "light woman,”
shrewd and shrewish, who spoke in Good-
wife Knapp’s defense. Later she too was
on trial and released, and her husband sued
her accusers. She did not sound timid, by
all accounts, yet on her own showing she
had run fearfully from the "Indian” who
offered her something shining brighter than
daylight.
"Shonokins look like Indians,” muttered
Tlrunstone, "if you do not notice their third
lingers.”
He took time to feel sorry for the Puri-
tan elders, not versed in demonology and
not even well versed in grammar or law,
who were faced with whatever faced them
three hundred years ago.
Well, then: The wife of a New England
colonist had lied refusing from a bright talis-
man that would make her "big rich.” He,
Tliunstone, was in possession of such a
thing. The Shonokin had fled this time, los-
ing his charm — or had he? Was this, per-
haps, a device to make Thunstone accept
a bribe or wage?
Thunstone laid down the book and raised
the handkerchief. There was a fleck of
blood on it, as the manager had said; and
on the dish, too, seeping from under the
imprisoning glass. Within, the shining ob-
ject seemed to float, like a gleaming bit of
ice on a dark sea.
Thunstone took from a cabinet some
chemical vessels, tubes and flasks of liquid.
Carefully he secured a portion of the blood,
diluted it, made frowning tests. He v/ound
up shaking his head over the precipitation in
his solution.
Blood, yes. Mammalian, surely. Human,
no. What creature could be matched with
that blood he could not say. Perhaps no
scientist could say. He felt his eyes drawn
again to the thing under the glass.
It was no longer a jewel, or anything
like a jewel. In the little w^allow of blood
lay a skull the size of his thumb, pallid in-
stead of glaring, its cranium shaped strange-
ly, bulging here and pinched in there. Its
black eye-sockets seemed to meet his gaze
and challenge it. Its wee, perfect jawbone
stirred on its hinge, and two rows of per-
fect, pointed little teeth parted, then snicked
together as if in hunger or menace.
T hunstone watched, as closely as
when the Shonokin had first dipped the
mystery from his pocket, but with all his
defenses, mental- and spiritual, up. Skulls
of any size and shape must not frighten
him, he decided. And — ^his memory flashed
back to the Indian tales of Kalaspup — ^mag-
ical skulls had been employed before this
by Shonokins against mankind, and had
been defeated.
It was only the size of a thumb, anyvray.
No, a trifle larger, the size of an egg. A
big egg. And the glass that covered it was
smaller than Thunstone had thought, the
skull-appearance crowded it.
' As Thunstone gazed, the jawbone moved,
the teeth gnashed, a second time. The
movement stirred the glass, tilted and upset
it. The glass roiled to the floor, broke with
a muffled clash of fragments. The egg-
sized skull was suddenly orange size. Its
sockets were no longer dark but glowed
greenly, as with some sort of phosphor-
escent rot. With a waggle of its jawbone
it hunched itself from the plate, a little
nearer to Thunstone. Yet again its teeth,
big enough to show their pointed formation,
snapped hungrily.
Thunstone argued with himself that
worse things than this had come to him in
the past, that a skull so small w'ould be eas-
ily crushed — -but already it was bigger, big-
ger still. It flipped over, rolled from the
table, swam through the air at him. As it
snapped its jaw's, he batted it aw'ay, palm
outward, as if playing handball. The thing
was as cold as a flying snowball, and as he
deflected it, it almost sank its sharp teeth
into his finger. It struck a wall, bounced
and caromed back, so that he ducked oniy
just in time. The w^all where it had touched
so briefly bore a spatter of blood. On its
new course the skull flew into the bedroom,
and Thunstone pulled the door shut.
At once something was bumping, shov-
ing, dem,anding entrance to the parlor. The
panels of the door creaked, but held. The
blows grew heavier, more insistent. Was
BLOOD FROM A STONE
79
the thing growing still more — would it
grow and grow, to the size of a boulder, a
table, a house? Thunstone, eyes on the
closed door, mustered his wits for some-
thing new in defense. He thought quickly
of the Connecticut visitation of terror, of
witnesses at the witch-trials who had
spoken of enchantments that smacked of
hypnotism or hallucination and of grimmer
things — ^"jfiry eies” with no head to con-
tain them, and a brief glimpse of something
"v/ith a great head and wings and noe
boddy and all black.” Well, if Shonokins
had not triumphed there, they would not
triumph here.
The knockings had ceased, and there was
a questing flash of light at the lower chink
of the door, then something began slowly
to pour out.
Thunstone thought at first it was some
slow, pale-grey liquid, but it held its shape.
The forepart of a flat, ugly skate or ray
sometimes steals into view like that from
hiding in shallow water — -a blunt point
like a nose, a triangle of pale tissue as flat
as though hammered down. This trembled
a bit, as if exploring the air by smell or feel.
It came out more, and more.
I T WAS not a flattened skull, for bone
would have splintered; but had a skull
been modeled in softness, then pressed as
thin as paper, it might be like that. It still had
a jointed jaw, the semblance of needle teeth,
and eye-sockets that looked up at Thunstone
with a deep glow. The glow was more
knowledgable than menacing. Thunstone
saw' no sign of the effort to terrify which
characterizes most aii’icks by things natural
or supernatural. It thought' it had him, and
that there would be hi tie or no trouble
about doing what it wanted to do with him.
Those flattened jaws opened, and he could
see the inner bare bones of them.
It slid out, out, thin and broad as a bath-
mat. Tliunstone’s great hand fell on the
back of a chair, and he brought this forward,
as a trainer offers a cliair to a truculent lion
in a cage. The teeth closed on a hardwood
leg and bit off the tip of it like a bit of
celery. A little waggle of the flat muzzle
cleared away the splinters. With a sort of
protozoic surge, it began to clear of the
chink under the floor. Its forepart sTv'dled
as if to regain its skull-shape, a shape that
would be larger tlaan a bushel.
There was a door behind Thunstone, a
door to the outer corridor; but Thunstone
does not run from evil. He knows that
others have turned their backs, and what has
happened to tlaose others. He tossed the
whole chair for the teeth to catch and man-
gle, dropped back as far as the closet and
made a quick snatching motion inside for
an ebony cane. With this he thrust, swords-
manslike, at the enemy, and thought it
cliecked — perhaps because the ferrule of the
stick was of silver, abhorrent to black magic.
He gained a moment to grab with his other
hands at the bookshelf and throw books
like stones at the thing.
T hose were valuable books, some of
them irreplacable, others old friends that
had nourished his mind and stood his allies
in moments almost as unlucky as this.
Thunstone felt like cursing as the skull, now
lifting itself three-dimensional against the
bedroom door, caught in its mouth and
ripped to shreds a first edition of Thomp
son’s Mysteries and Secrets of Magic.
Spence’s heavy Encyclopedia of Occultism,
enough to smash a skull, bounced jmpo-
tently from the misshapen brain-case. The
thing was lifting now, lifting into the air
in a slow, languid flight, like a filling bal-
loon, to drift toward him. Its jaw dropped,
exposing a moutlr that could take his head
at one gulp.
"Not this time!” Thunstone defied it, in
a voice' he wished' w’as not so hysterical, and
threw yet another book. This came open
as it flew through the air, smiting the nose-
less face and dropping on its back, wide-
spread, just in front.
The skull, too, dropped back and dov.m.
Thunstone could have sv/orn that its face-
bones writhed, like frightened flesh. It
seemed to turn away.
He stood there, breathing as if from
labors that had exhausted even his giant
body, and saw it sag, spread, flatten. It
wanted to creep back the v/ay it had come.
"No!” he yelled at it again, and, stoop-
ing, caught the edge of the carpet. Fran-
tically he bundled the skull an-.i the book
together.
It took both his brawny hands h) hold
so
WEIRD TALES
Jiat package together, for what was inside
ihrasiied and churned as convulsively as a
great cat in a bag. Thunstone hung on, it
was all he could do, and brought his thick
knee into play, bearing down. That skull
had grown so large and abhorrent — ^but not
quite to bushel size. It was more pumpkin
size now — or did he imagine it was like a
football, the size of an ordinary human
head.^ It still strove and w'allowed, strain-
ing for freedom. A human head of those
dimensions would be dwarfed, really; per-
haps a child’s; perhaps a monkey’s.
"It’s shrinking,’’ he growded exultantly.
"Trying to get out that way.”
Now it did not struggle at ail, or it was
roo small to make its struggles felt. Thun-
stone clung to his improvised trap, count-
ing to thirty, and dared to let the fabric
fall open.
The skull was gone. The blinding bright
jewel was there, in a fold of the rug as
far removed as possible from the still open
oook.
Thunstone smiled. Deliberately and with
ill his stren^i, he set his heel upon the
glow and ground down. He felt disinte-
gration, as of very old fire-weakened brick.
A whiff of bad odor came up, and was gone.
The glow departed, and w'hen he took away
his foot, there was a blood-stain and nothing
more.
Breathing deeply once again, Thunstone
picked up the book. It was his Egyptian
Secrets that, earlier in the day, had shown
him a way to another victory. By some
chance it had fallen open to the sixty-second
page:
A Most Excellent Erotectiori
Write the following letters upon a
scrap of paper:
Thunstone read them, a passage so sea-
soned with holy names that it might have
been a prayer instead of a spell. And,
finally:
Only carry the paper with you; and
you will then perceive that no enchant-
ment can remain in the room with you.
Thunstone closed the book, then reopened
it to the quaint- preface which promised
that "to him who properly esteems and
values this book, and never abuses its teach-
ings, will not only be granted the usefulness
of its contents, but he will also attain ever-
lasting joy and blessing.” The thought
came that to some scholars such tomes of
power were considered in themselves to be
evil. But is not every weapon what the
wielder makes it.^ He decided to disallow
the element of chance in the falling open
of Egyptian Secrets to the very passage that
had won his late struggle.
Someone was knocking at the door.
Thunstone started violently, then recovered
himself.
"Yes.?”
"Room service, Mr. Thunstone. You
said you’d be dining in your suite?”
"Not for three-quarters of an hour,” said
Thunstone. "I’ll telephone down.”
"Right.” The man outside was walking
away.
Thunstone poured himself a drink from a
bottle of brandy. It tingled in his throat.
Then he stripped off his jacicet, rolled tlie
sleeves back from his broad forearms, and
from the bathroom fetched a broom, towels
and a pail of water.
Beginning the task of cleaning his own
room, he whistled a tune to himself, a tune
old and cheerful. And when he had fin-
ished whistling it, he whistled it all over
again. He had never felt better in his life.
By CHARLES KING
Home!
OME forth Ahrhnanes . . . come
a forth Zatniel , , . come forth
Sammael . . . come forth
Belial. . .
On and on droned the emotionless voice
that seemed to have been spawned from
some dank sepulchre. The invocation to the
Dark Angel continued, punctuated only by
the occasional sharp intakes of breath of
the straining spectators.
“Come forth Abaddon . . . come form
ApoUyon . . . come forth — ” and someoce
Heading by BORIS DOLGOV
It takes more than a little time to shake off preciously preserved
witch fancies and superstitions
8X
82
WEIRD TALES
screamed weakl7 as a dim, formless shape
whisked over us for an instant, and was
gone.
Another shape, and stiii another, fled
noiselessly over our heads. The short moans
that had escaped the assemblage at odd in-
tervals now became more frequent . . .
swelled into a gruesome counterpoint to the
vocal mad melody of the Invocator.
Faster and faster slewed the shapes above
us . . . sharper and sharper grew the uncon-
trolled crises about me . . . and then my flash-
light sent its inquisitive beam along the
floor. In that one instant I’d seen enough.
My free hand crept toward the wall-switch
above me and flicked it. Bathed in yellow
light, the room revealed its occupants.
A tight, strained group that looked
straight ahead with unseeing eyes. Almost
tangible in its blanketing effect, the Terror
of just a moment ago still clung heavily to
them. Only the Invocator seemed unchained
by the spell she’d invoked. Her eyes were
fixed upon me . . , glaring with anger. So I
spoke quickly:
"Show’s over, folks . . . another phony
exposed!”
With a screech the old hell-cat bounded
across the floor. I caught her in time to keep
her raking nails from exploring my face.
"Stop sitting around like fools! Take a
look underneath that table!”
My sharp command seemed to release the
others from their lethargy. As in a dream
they arose and wandered loosely over to the
table at which the squalling, old Invocator
had been sitting.
"Well? What do you see?”
One shocked voice made answer; "Raised
buttons on the floor — ”
"Exactly,” and here I had to tighten my
grip on the furious old woman whose spittle
was running down her cursing mouth, "Ex-
actly! 'Those buttons controlled the move-
ments of the shapes that so frightened you.
They were suspended from wires. . . .”
"But . . . but . . .”
"I know You’re wondering about the
real, unmistakable terror that gripped you
— that paralyzed you. You were sold a very
solid bill of' goods.”
"What do you mean?”
"Look ac it this way,” I explained. "This
old crone. I’m still holding, represents her-
self as a Witch; claims to have direct contact
with those of the Nether World. For a fee
she promises to prove same. Well, whether
you like it or not, you are half-inclined to
believe her — maybe because of the delicious
terror involved . . . Ouch!”
I WIPED away the trickle of blood from
the side of my cheek where the old she-
devil had finally succeeded in sideswiping
me. I thrust her away from me, threw her a
few lira notes, and swept my friends out of
the house. Later, in my own diggings, we
dragged out some of the local vino and gave
it a good play. I was at the window admir-
ing the awesome grandeur of the brooding
Alps when a voice recalled me to my duties
as spook-buster.
"Carry on with your explanation, Jules.
You were saying that we half-invited the old
girl’s atmosphere — and that we half-believed
her before she started.”
"Well, didn’t you? Didn’t the group of
you insist on trotting over for a seance, even
though I’d warned you that there are no such
things as ghosts, succuba, wraiths, lemures
or anything else that fake mediums batten
on. . . .”
"But, Jules — ”
"Let me finish. All of you know that I’ve
been traipsing around the world for years
exposing just such quackery as we sat
through tonight. As a kid I got too damn
many scares in the small Pennsylvania Dutch
town where I was born. I spent too many
sleepless nights, scared almost to death, be-
cause some old fool filled my ears with mys-
tico nonsense. ...”
"So you devoted yourself to the breaking
down of all those who claim to knoiv that
such things exist. You’ve incessantly chased
down rumors from Translyvania to Trans-
jordania . . . but we know all that — ”
"Then why don’t you see for yourself that
people will never be free of mumbo-jumbo
• — and those crooks who exploit it — if you
calmly and completely fall for as amateurish
a setting of auto-suggestion and hocus-pocus
as w'e all saw performed for us tonight?”
Hot? You’re darn right I was hot. In my
own way I’d made some sort of reputation in
my capacity as witcli-brealcer, or anything
else you want to call me. My monographs on
the subject had been widely translated and
WELCOME HOMEr
83
distributed. And now, in Ital7 where I’d
gone to vacation with a few friends, I’d had
to work just as hard to convince these sup-
posedly intellectual people as those ancient
die-hards, who still buried rinds, animal
hearts, and other assorted garbage, under a
full moon. Was all my work for nothing?
Were people so perverse or stupid that they
needed individual convincing? It was all
very disappointing. . . .
"Don’t take it so hard, Jules. We believe
you. Really, we do. It’s just that . . .’’
"Cut it,” I grunted, "I’m tired of people
telling me tlrat it takes a little time to shake
off preciously preserved fancies and super-
stitions. It’s nothing more than romantic
foolishness — kid stuff.”
L ater . . . when I was alone ... I was
sorry for the tirade I’d subjected my
friends to. After all, they were no worse
tlian others. Gullible, always on the lookout
for new thrills, ready to be intimidated and
fleeced— but that was their business. What I
needed was a vacation from the sorry busi-
ness I’d selected as my life work. I toyed
with the idea until I’d convinced myself. I
hadn’t been home since my Mother had
died, some ten years before. So I cabled my
Father.
The notion conceived, the plan was put
into action. It took very little time to malce
my good-bys, pack my bags and board a
steamer homeward. The trip was unevent-
ful, most of my time being spent at the
ship’s bar where the bartender was properly
congenial and silent by turn.
And then the slow, majestic passage, ac-
companied by hootings, whistles and bravely
grunting tugs as we eased past the Statue of
Liberty toward a Manhattan pier. By this
time I was so eager for my long unseen
Father and home town, that I stopped for
just one quickie at the Hotel Pennsylvania
bar and then made for the Pennsylvania
Station itself just a few yards away.
All through the night my thoughts kept in
rhythm with the clacking wheels. I was too
excited to sleep. Yes, the nearer I got to the
little Pennsylvania Dutch town that had
been my home, the more I realized how I
needed its slow pace, its drowsy quiet.
Hours of patience were rewarded by the
coming of morning. I was too pent up to
eat . . . just made a quick toilet and waited.
And then, and then at long last, the great
chain of cars slid into my station. I tossed
my bags onto the siding and vaulted after
them.
I had sent a telegram ahead to my
Father, but he wasn’t at the station. I re-
flected that the years were catdiing up with
him and he was probably still in bed. In that
case, I thought, it would be better to eat at
the local hotel and disturb the old man’s re-
pose as little as possible. It would also give
me a welcome chance to look about the town
and see if it had changed.
The walk to the single hotel the town
boasted afforded me great happiness. I now
knew my stay would be one of maundering
peace . . . for everything was the same. There
were the sleepy little stores, companionably
slumbering with their proprietors through
the years . . . there were the frugal and
pious Amish and Mennonites bringing their
farm wares to the Square. , . .
^^^OOD morning to ye, stranger,” plac-
vJT idly announced the wrinlded hotel
clerk.
"Good morning to you, too — but I am not
a stranger.”
Wrinkles dissolved, coagulated and then
made room for additional ones as the
weighty problem was wrestled with. Then,
"No . . . cannot say I recall ye. ...”
"Shame on you,” I scolded, "has Jules
Swartz’ son changed so much in ten years
that his old friends no longer know him?”
It is nice to be remembered by acquaint-
ances of the past ... I confess it does pleas-
ant things to the ego . . . but I was
completely unprepared for what follow’ed.
"You . . . you are redly Jules Svcartz'
son?”
"That is v.'hat I have just told,)mu.”
"You haven’t been home since your
Mother died?”
"That is also true.”
The old man was so intent on getting his
words out that he practically stuttered them :
"And . . . and didn’t ye leave tov/n at an
early age?”
This was getting monotonous. I don’t
usually take to questions about my doings.
But, I reflected, there was certainly no harm
in answering the garrulous old man. It
84
WEIRD TALES
would, possibly, give him some welcome
gossip to retail during the day.
“Yes, I left home at an early age, coming
back just once in a while for visits. . . .”
“And d’ye remember what your Mother
died of?”
Now I was downright annoyed. So I de-
termined to rufSe the feathers of tliis talka-
tive old male hem "You probably know that
better than I do myself, my inquisitive host.
I was in Mexico when I got the letter about
her succumbing to heart failure. But, of
course, if you know better. . .
My obvious sarcasm was just as obviously
wasted. Taught me a good lesson, too. This
was the last time I’d ever bandy words with
hotel clerks grown moronic with age. His
next words were the convincer;
“Maybe I do know better . . . maybe I
do. ...”
'That was quite enough. Bags in hand, I
swung out the front doqr and away before
my homecoming could be soured by a loqua-
cious old loon. The good, clean air reminded
me that I was hungry and my eye caught a
red-painted combination bar and lunchroom
at the further corner. I’d never seen it be-
fore. Definitely an innovation in town.
It was clean enough inside, and I was
soon wolfing down a generous platter of
eggs and bacon. 'The coffee was surprisingly
good and I said as much to the lone man
running the place. He grinned.
“Glad somebody around here appreciates
the stuff — most’ve them complain it’s too
strong.”
“That’s the way I like it.”
“Me, too, stranger.”
“I’m not exactly a stranger. That is, I was
born in this town and I’m returning to visit
my Father.”
“That’s nice. Who is he?”
“Jules Swartz. I’ve the same name. . .
’’Oh!”
H alfway to my mouth the coffee-cup
suddenly halfted. A few drops spilled
onto the counter. 'Then, slowly, carefully, I
set the cup down. That “Oh” had been too
sharply accented; too full of provocative
meaning. And I was getting more than a
little weary of having people shy in a star-
tled way at mention of my Father or myself.
“Tell me,” and I was making my voice as
steady as possible, “just why everybody, so
far, acts as if there were a bad smell around
when I mentioned Jules Swartz.”
He carefully wiped the counter with a
damp rag before he spoke. It was easy to see
that he v/as a type who thought long and
hard before answering a question which
might prove serious. He was marshalling his
words.
Then:
“I haven’t been in this town long, Str —
uh — Mr. Swartz. Personally, I don’t know
anything.”
“But you’ve heard, eh?”
“Yeah . . . I’ve heard.”
"What?”
“Oh, you know how folks rattle along in
a town like this. . . .”
“I ought to know. That was what orig-
inally made me run away. Pennsylvania
Dutch and morbid mysticism seem to make
a steady team. . . .”
"That’s kind of what I mean, Mr. Swartz.
With the job I got, and with people in and
out of here all the time, I just can’t help
hearing things — ^picking things up.”
"Tell me.”
“Remember it ain’t what I say. . . .”
Impatience clawed at me. “I know ... I
know . . . you’re only repeating what you’ve
heard. ...”
“That’s right.”
I could have cheerfully throttled him.
"Go on — ”
And then it came.
“People keep disappearin’!”
“Really? You mean townspeople?”
“Nope. People passin’ through. Sales-
men, tourists and such. . . .”
“But what has that got to do with my
Dad?”
“Well . . , there was your Mother
too "
He jumped back, slamming himself
against the wall back of the counter, as my
hand curved toward him.
“Hey! I’m only repeatin’ what you tvanted
me to tell you!”
I listened to the violent pumping of my
heart; looked at my trembling hand. "Better
set up a drink. No. Make it a couple — one
for each of us."
Wordless, he splashed a couple of ryes
into tumblers. We soundlessly toasted each
'WELCOME HOMEr
85
other and then threw the fiery stuff down
fast.
"Let’s kill another round!”
"I guess we better had, Mr. Swartz.”
Soothed by the strong liquor I lit a ciga-
rette, and was pleased to see that my hands
were almost normal again. "Go on ... I
may as well hear all of it.”
He looked at me carefully, and then, ap-
parently reassured by what he saw, "Well,
folks claim that your Mother didn’t die of
heart failure. ...”
"What do they claim?”
"They say— uh — she knocked herself
off!”
^'Suicide?”
"Yeah.”
"But . . . but why?”
"There was those people supposed to
have disappeared — ”
I gripped the counter edge until my fin-
gers hurt badly. "Man! Stop torturing me!
What about those people?”
"They say . . . I hear . . . those folks were
last seen at your house!”
I NSUFFERABLE beasts! Ignorant, vi-
cious, scandal -mongering savages! The
same tongues, pregnant with old-world fear
and prejudice, that had driven me to leave
the town, had slain my saintly Mother.
Those tongues, with the precision of prob-
ing knives, had dug her grave and then
plagued her into it. I had run away from
it. She had stayed, fought her battle . . .
and lost.
"I . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Swartz.”
"They . . . my parents . . . were still tak-
ing in tourists, weren’t they?”
"Yeah. People that couldn’t find accom-
modations at the hotel used to go to your
place. Seemed to be an agreement between
the hotel and your folks.”
There alv/ays had been. The good ground
provides food, but money is always scarce to
a small-town farmer. We’d taken in many
boarders and transients in the past. The
extra few dollars had always been more than
welcome.
"But the hotel stopped sendin’ people
over some time ago.”
I awoke from my perusal of the past.
Those words meant we v/ere now getting to
the heart of the matter.
"You mean . , . after my Mother died?”
"No — before. It was soon after the hotel
owner told your folks that it ... it hap-
pened.”
"How . . . how is my Father?”
He coughed slightly. "Haven’t seen much
of him, lately.”
"You rnean since my Mother . . .”
"Yeah.”
That was why the broken-hearted old man
hadn’t met me at the station. He’d been too
proud to run the cruel gauntlet of eyes and
tongues that would inevitably follow him;
and too kind to include my company in his
and force me to share his sad sorrow. It had
happened anyway. My informant’s voice
rode into my reverie again.
"I’m a sort of a Johnny-come-Iately in this
town, m.yself. Don’t hold with the way peo-
ple think. ...”
It was easy to see that he was embarrassed.
With true decency, he didn’t want to in-
trude. I made it easier for him: "I certainly
agree v/ith you, my friend.”
He brightened a little, at that. “What I
mean is I always Hired your people. When-
ever they came in here for a bite to eat they
were nice to me . . . polite . . . lots politer
than the rest. ...”
I nearly cried at that. In his honest,
straight-forward way he wanted to help. I
motioned h i m to continue.
"You’re the son,” he blurted red-faced,
“maybe there’s somethin’ you can do. Your
Mother’s gone, but your Father has a right
to live out his days in peace.”
There was only one thing to do, and I did
it. I shook his hand in mine. The sort of
handshake that goes on between two men
v/ho would be shamed by spoken v/ords of
gratitude, and who must express themselves
in silent fashion.
I certainly could do something. This was,
after all, the job that I w'as used to doing . . ,
had been doing. I’d succeeded in laying
macabre myths lov/ all over the v/orld; had
convinced divers people, certainly as hard-
headed and opinionated as lived in this
tov/n, of the intellectual futility of their
basically banal beliefs. Yes . . . this was in-
deed my job; to help my Mother rest in
peace, and my Fa'dier live in peace.
"■'^ffiere is your telephone?”
He pointed to the enclosed booth in the
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corner. I changed a couple of bills for a
handful of silver. My call to New York
went through rapidly and a few minutes was
all I needed. There was delighted agreement
on the other side. I hung up feeling in-
effably better.
"Thanks again," I mentioned on my way
out, "you’ve been very good to me; helped a
great deal.”
I DECIDED to walk out to my Father’s
place. It wasn’t very far . . . and would
also keep me from getting into any more
cankerous conversation with the spectre-
stricken villagers. Peace closed in upon me
as I strode along. The grass along the wind-
ing dirt road smelled sweetly, and the great,
gnarled trees dropped their heavy-laden
branches as if in benediction. It wasn’t long
after that I pushed open the small gate that
led to the home that I’d been born in, and
my Father before me. My first feeling was
one of misgiving. Clearly, the place was
going to seed. That it was unattended was
given mute evidence by wildly sprouting
weeds, and corn that was dying upon the
stalk. Dark depression threatened my new-
found peace.
Outside the house, I forbore entering for
a moment. I wanted to compose myself in
spirit as well as in countenance. This was
done . . . and I entered.
'The creaking rocking-chair in the corner
halted its steady motion.
"Welcome home, son.”
I stood still for the space of a breath, then
rushed forward. My cheeks were wet as my
arms went around the old man. His body
that had been so strong . . . so erect . . . now
bent and thin; his voice . . . now so . . . weak
. . . lonely. . . .
"Father. You look grand!”
"Do I, son?” He smiled. A smile so sad
that I threw my plan of slow attack to the
winds.
"Don’t you worry, Father. I heard enough
in town, this morning, to know how you’ve
been pilloried and wronged. And I’m
goipg • • •” . ■ .
"Please.” His thin, blue-veined hand
moved slowly in protest, "Please, son, I
would rather forget.”
"Don’t worry. I’m not thinking of any
nonsensical revenge. Tm only interested in
WELCOME HOME!
restoring your good name to the community
that should be proud of having you one of
them; and, incidentally, to forestall the fu-
ture blighting of anyone’s life through mali-
ciousness and godless stupidity.”
“No, my boy . . . you mustn’t.”
"But—”
An angry red streaked the old man’s worn
face. His fists clenched , . . unclenched. . . .
"I say you mustn’t!”
Without conceit, the old man must have
known of my reputation in my chosen field.
Surely my Mother must have shown him the
letters and newspaper clippings I’d sent to
her. I would have liked to accede to bis ap-
parently earnest wish, but . . .
“It’s too late. Father.”
"Too late?”
"Yes. I’ve already telephoned friends of
mine — a married couple — to come up here
and help me disprove this nonsense.”
His voice was so low that I could hardly
catch them. “Too . . . late. . . .”
"But surely,” I hurried on, "you must
realize that it’s not only for your good . . .
there are countless others destined to be un-
fairly persecuted unless this thing is nipped
short.”
M y worry changed almost to joy as,
for the first time, a peacefulness came
into his face. Well, no. Not a peacefulness,
precisely. Rather, a look of absolute relaxa-
tion. As if tlie tormenting burden had
slipped off his thin shoulders.
"Are they good friends of your’s?”
This was something that I could sink my
teeth into: “Yes, Father, the very best. They
are literary people, both well-known and
respected writers. Their magazine articles
are widely read, and if they write the truth
about this place — a truth which I am going
to unalterably establisli — then good old
common sense will, once and for all, take
the place of haunted fear.”
He looked at me a while, the effect of
complete relaxation more and more appar-
ent.
“Yes ... it has to be.”
I locked my arm in his. "Come. Let us
explore the old place. It’s been too long
since I’ve seen it.”
“Too long.”
hfentally I cursed myself for staying away
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WEIR D BQOICS RENTED
so many years. Indeed, the saddening events
of the morning proved, beyond doubt, that I
had been away too long. It hadn’t been right
to let the old man forage for himself . . .
stand alone before the slings and arrows. . . .
The rooms were the unmistakable stamp
of not having been lived in. They had no
welcoming warmth, gave off no aura save
loneliness. I forced some brightness into my
voice; "How about a peek into the attic.
Father. What old keepsakes have you added
since last time.?”
"I’d rather we didn’t go there, son.”
Something stirred inside me. "Why?”
"Your Mother’s things are up there. I . . .
I don’t . . .”
Relief surged through in gusty waves.
"Then I’ll go alone. Please believe me. I
understand.”
How the old man must have loved her.
Alone in the attic, I looked about at the
pictures, clothes, needlework ... in fact,
anything the house contained that was repre-
sentative of my Mother was before me. And
everything was clean, dusted, showing the
loving attention of his hands that were tire-
less in their devotion. Only for himself he
no longer cared. But all that would change.
After my friends and myself had exploded
the rotten bubble that hovered over this
town I would stay with my Father, leave
him no more. Together we would . . . and
I shuddered from head to toe as a reedy
scream tore through the house and into my
heart.
I clattered into the hall and took the stairs
several at a time in a wild descent to the
floor below. But someone else had preceded
me down those same stairs. He lay at the
foot of them, on his stomach, but his neclc so
badly cracked and twisted that his sightless
eyes stared right up into mine. My Father.
W ITHIN an hour I had the body re-
moved to the undertaker parlor. In no
uncertain terms I let the gaping fools know
that it was accidental death. It had been too
easy to probe into their miserable minds and
see the word "suicide” framed therein. So
I spoke first, and then shouldered my way
past the brutish, inquisitive faces into the
open air.
Back I went, to the farm, to await the
guests who could help no longer,.
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Wait! But they could! After the fervent
protestations I’d made to my poor Father I’d
be less than a man not to try to help the
others I’d mentioned. Others, who were
doomed to lives blighted by whispers unless
I ripped out the roots of fecund unreason.
So I waited.
Steps coming up the porch warned me
that my friends had arrived. As I rose to my
feet I controlled my features, but, one look
at theirs, told me they’d already been ap-
prised of what happened. Wagging tongues
. . . wagging tongues . . . ceaseless ... re-
morseless. . . .
Lila drew my head down to her’s and
kissed me. Her calm, lovely voice soothed
me, lulled me:
“We were told, Jules, by the man who
taxied us up here.”
Jim didn’t say anything for the moment.
Fle just gripped my hand, letting his feeling
friendship run strong and true from him to
me.
They were my friends. My best friends.
Later, we were sitting and smoking about
the lire I’d stirred in the grate. None of us
had felt very hungry, just managed to swal-
low a few mouthfuls. I’d told them the
whole sorry story and, more and more, had
revelled in the drought that Providence had
blessed me with sudr wonderfuly commiser-
ate friendship,
"You’re absolutely right, Jules,” stated
Lila, "we must go through with your plan.”
Jim had also given his opinion in his
slow, thoughtful way. "Lila is quite right,
Jules. What you are going to do is fine in
concept and tremendously thoughtful in re-
gard to humanity. You’re a good man.”
How I warmed to them. "Just a couple of
nights of sleeping here will be quite enough
to turn the trick. And, speaking of sleeping,
it’s time you were off. You’ll find your room
upstairs. ...”
"How about you, Jules?”
"I’ll be along directly.”
A lone, I sat and brooded. Recalled
events from my childhood; thought of
my dear Mother and Father. The hours sped
by silently and imnoticed. It was a casual
look at my wrist-watch that told me how
late it was. Midnight.
It was another casual look that broke the
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back of the mystery . . . and logically tx-
plained what had transpired.
The hall-mirror was cobwebbed and un-
clean. I turned away and sat down before
the fire again. Once again I let my thoughts
range into the past. Now, however, events
explained themselves v/ith astonishing clar-
ity.
My Mother haJ. committed suicide. She,
too, had found oiit and had been unable to
survive her knowledge.
My Father? Well, I now understood — too
well — v/hy he’d asked if my friends were
good friends. I understood why he’d par-
rotted the words "too late” after me. Not
once . . . but twice.
And why the old man had repeated "too
long” after me. His mea.ning had been
diametrically different from mine. He’d
striven . . . you can’t take it away from him
. . . he’d striven to keep the secret from me.
But I had forced him . . . forced him. . . .
Then, v/hen he saw that it was indeed
"too late” and "too long,” he’d relaxed and
let his burden slide from him ... to me.
Yes ... he, too, had committed suicide.
It was the only thing to do. He couldn’t
face me once I had found out the truth.
This, also, I well understood.
Well, it was time, and I v/as being called,
so I got up. I took another look at the
grime-covered mirror, well aware of what it
would tell me. My trained mind might re-
ject it, but my eyes — and my ego — couldn’tl
I looked down at my hands, the fingers of
which had extended into serpentine length
and which writhed and twisted with com-
plete disregard for bone structure. I looked
at the black tufts of hair that dotted them. I
looked at my face . . . my face . . . which
had become abnormally larger . . . w'hich
had become pitted with tiny round pools of
excrescence ... at the double rows of
hooked teeth that pushed themselves a dis-
tance past my livid lips. . . .
I was hungry.
I stalked silently up the stairs, until I
came to the closed door behind which my
friends were sleeping. I didn’t touch the
knob. I knew I didn’t have to. I effortlessly
passed through the door, itself, and began
enjoying my Father’s heritage. . . .
Arisham House
P erhaps we are more than ordinarily en-
thusiastic about the various fine fantasy vol-
umes coming out of Arkham House because
many of the collected stories first appeared in
Weird Tales. But judged by any standards
such books as Donald Wandrei’s "The Eye and
the Finger,” Dr. Henry Whitehead’s "Jumbee,”
C. A. Smith’s "Lost Worlds,” and H. P. Love-
craft’s "Marginalia” make for fine entertain-
ment. We enjoyed them as we know did thou-
sands of others.
The history and growtli of Arkham House,
creation of August Derleth and Donald Wan-
drei, makes an interesting record. Starting out
as an idea and a name — "Arkham” from H. P.
Lovecraft’s name for Salem in his Mythos tales
— Arkham House has weathered some tough
early sledding, paper-limitation snags (don’t we
know!) and the loss of co-director Don Wan-
drei to the Army, leaving "major-domo” Au-
gust Derleth to carry on alone.
Derleth is, as if you didn’t know, a fine and
established writer of ever-increasing stature.
Weird Tales values him not only as a true
friend of long standing but as one of its best-
known and best-liked contributors. Too, he is
literary editor of one of the large mid-western
papers, contributes regularly to a do 2 en "big-
time” magazines besides turning out a couple of
books a year. (He’s already written 30!) Still,
despite these many commitments, he finds time
to run Arkham House with its increasingly
ambitious program . . . and incidentally, he does
all editing, proofreading and cataloging on the
books himself!
We find that Arkham House plans for 1945
line up like this. In the current year the
following will be published: "Something
Near,” by August Derleth; "The Opener of the
Way,” by Robert Bloch; "Witch House,” by
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Evangeline Walton; “The Hounds of Tinda-
los,” by Frank Belknap Long, and probably
one omnibus. Farther anthologies — like the fine
"Sleep No More,” etc., collected and edited by
August Derleth — are now scheduled to go to
Farrar & Rinehart.
We feel we speak for the many lovers of
bizarre, eerie and extraordinary fiction when we
congratulate August Derleth on Arkham House
and the work it is doing. Arkham, we think,
deserves every success in payment for the pleas-
ure it has brought and contemplates bringing
to the thousands of "weird-tale” enthusiasts.
“New Oz Just Ain’t . . . Yet!”
I N THE March Eyrie columns Weird Tales
printed a letter by Jack Snow in which he
stated that a nev/ Oz book he had authored was
"now* published.”
Now Mr. Snow is quick to write us, with
modesty becoming an author, that he really
didn’t expect his story "Second Childhood”
and its accompanying Eyrie notes to appear
for some time. (But you can’t keep a good
yarn dov/n. Jack!) Hence the phrase "now
published.”
Snow wants us to know tliat his "The Mag-
ical Mimics in Oz” will not be published
until later, due to paper restrictions and pre-
vailing conditions.
Friday Superstition
S OME time ago when Roger S. Vreeland
("A Sip With Satan” . . March Weird
Tales) was in the office we got into an en-
thusiastic disaission with him about the origin
of superstitions; particularly the one concern-
ing Friday. Not so long afterward he sent us
an "investigation” of the whole matter-^show-
ing what authors do with therriselves when
they’re not authoring! Here it is. But if you
READERS’ VOTE
THE MAN WHO CRIED THE ULTIMATE
"WOLF!" PARADOX
THE SHINING LAND THE MUSIC BOX FROM
THE V/ATCKERS HELL
THE LEGEND Or 223 BLOOD FROM A STONE
THE LOST DAY WELCOME HOME
Here’s a list of nine stories in this issue. Won’t
yon let ns know which three you eonsirter the
be.st. Just place the numbers; 1, 2, and 3 re-
spectively against your three favorite tales —
then clip it out and mail it in to us.
WEIRD TALES
9 Rockefeller Plaza New York City
THE EYRIE
93
still run into some tough luck next Friday the
15di, don’t biame us!
Friday is a bad-luck day. That’s- a super-
stition that everyone knows, and it goes back
to the dimmest days of recorded history al-
though no one has been able to place a finger
on the exact origin. The erudite Encyclopedia
Britannka sumi-narily dismisses the matter thus :
"The ill-luck associated with the day arose from
the connection with the Crucifixion.”
Other sources indicate, however, that the
paths leading into antiquity are fourfold. They
lead (1) to the ancient Teuton forests; (2)
among the wilds of Scandinavia; (3) to papal
and thence pagan Rome; and (4) to the Far
East.
Chamber’s Encyclopedia: "Friday takes its
name from the goddess Frigga, wife of Odin,
to whom it was consecrated. The word, how-
ever, is often connected with Freyja (or Freya-
R.S.V.), the goddess of love, to which notion
the Latin name is due. . . . Almost everywhere
within the range of Christendom, Friday is a
day of proverbial ill-luck, in which it is not
wise to put to sea, to marry, or commence any
important undertaking. . , . Shipping statistics
still (1901) show a smaller number of sail-
ings upon that than upon any other day. It
liiay be well for sailors to be reminded that
Columbus both sailed and discovered land on
Friday, and that the Pilgrim Fathers touched
land on the same day.”
Curiosities of Popular Customs— WiWhim S.
Walsh. 1900; "It was the festival day of the
Goddess Freya, the Northern Venus. The ill
ludc whicli by popular superstition is still
ascribed to projects or journeys undertaken on
Friday is traceable to the fact that it was orig-
inally regarded as sacred to the goddess, whose
honor was held to be disregarded by all who,
instead of participating in her festive worship,
followed their own pursuits. On such Freya
was supposed to bring ill fortune. The super-
stition remained after the explanation had been
forgotten. No doubt the fact that Friday is
associated with the Passion of Christ and that it
is a day of abstinence in the Catholic Church
had much to do with keeping up the feeling.”
A legend in many versions and from many
places, in one form tells of an Isaac Harvey
of Wilmington. He was a hard-headed, mat-
ter-of-fact seafaring captain, and in order to
end the Friday superstition he laid the keel
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of a brig on a Friday; fitted her out on a Fri-
day; named her 'Triday of Wilmington”; sent
her out on a Friday under a Captain Friday.
The ship was wrecked on the following Friday.
The Book of Days: “The Friday supersti-
tion cannot wholly be explained by the fact
that it was ordained to be held a fast by the
Christians of Rome. Some portions of its ma-
leficent character is probably due to the char-
acter of the Scandinavian Venus Freya, the wife
of Odin, the goddess of fecundity. But we are
met on the other hand by the fact that amongst
the Bralimins of India a like superstitious aver-
sion to Friday prevails. They say that 'on this
day no business must be commenced.’ ” . . .
Black Fridays
I N THE United States:
Sept. 24, 1869, and Sept. 19, 1873, on
which financial panics occured.
In England:
Dec. 6, 1745, when news reached London
that Charles Eduard, the Pretender, was at
Derby v/ith the Highlanders; May 11, 1866, a
financial panic started.
Ripley, in his "Believe It, or Not,” says
“Friday is the luckiest day in American his-
tory.” He gives the following dates:
Friday, Aug. 3, 1492 — Columbus sailed for
America.
Friday, Oct. 12, 1492 — Columbus discovered
America.
Friday, Nov. 22, 1493 — Columbus landed
here again.
Friday, June 12, 1494 — ^Mainland of South
America discovered.
Friday, Mar. 5, 1496 — Henry VII commis-
sioned Cabot which resulted in the discovery
of North America.
Friday, Sept. 7, 1565 — Mendez founded St.
Augustine, Fla., the oldest city in the U. S.
Friday, Nov. 10, 1620 — Pilgrim Fathers
landed in harbor of Provincetown.
Friday, Feb. 22, 1732 — George Washington
born.
Friday, Oct. 17, 1777 — Burgoyne surren-
dered at Saratoga.
Friday, Sept. 19, 1781 — Cornwallis surren-
dered at Yorktown.
Here, hov/ever, is the most startling fact of
all— though the interpretation might depend
on one’s viewpoint; After consulting the World
Almanac’s “Ready Reference Calendar,” I dis-
cover that July 12, 1907, the day I was born,
was Friday! Roger S. Vreeland
THE EYRIE
95
9 Rockefeller
Plaza,
New York 20,
N. Y.
WRITE TO MARTIN WARE, SECRETARY
• This is your club — a medium to help you
get together with other fantasy and science-fiction
fans. Readers wanted it — they wrote in telling
us how much they would enjoy meeting others
of similar tastes.
• Membership is very simple: just drop a
line, so that we can enroll you on the club
roster, and publish your name and address in the
magazine.
® A membership card carrying the above de-
sign — personal token of your fellowship with the
weird and the fantastic — will be sent on request.
(A stamped, addressed envelope should be en-
closed.)
iiimiiiiimiiimmiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiuiiiiiimii
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